“The flowers are pretty,” said the beautiful Camilla with a sigh, “but

I do not require any. They tell me there are enough in the garden of the

convent. Heigh-ho!”

“That wreath, lady, is reckoned beautiful,”--and the companion of

Juan Sanchez selected what lie considered the most valuable of the

collection. “Would you deign to accept--no, no, I mean, would you oblige

me by buying it?”

The fair Camilla gracefully declined the purchase.

“Or that--or this one; any--all.” There never was a more importunate

flower-dealer.

“My friend,” replied the lady, gently, “indeed there is nothing here

that I require. You mistake me; I am destined for a life that forbids

all mortal luxuries. Show these things--and, indeed, some of them are

very beautiful--to yonder lady, my father’s--” she paused, the name was

not a pleasant one to pronounce--“_she_ will probably buy them. I do

not need them; and if I did--but no--down, down, proud heart--” and she

turned aside to hide a tear.

“Nay, lady, accept them; and, in return, repay me with your prayers.”

The intended novice waved her hand, and moved a step or two.

“Stay, lady; stay for one moment. I have a flower here, an empress could

not purchase; let me, pray let me, show it you.”

“Indeed!” said the fair girl, as she turned round.

“It is too precious to entrust within this casket, and therefore I

enshrine it here.”

As he spoke, the stranger took from his bosom a bunch of flowers, and

placed them in Camilla’s hand. Instantly a burning blush rose to her

very brows. A few rapid sentences fell from the stranger’s lips; a

billet was placed softly in no unwilling hand; when the entrance of the

admiral disturbed the course ot love and traffic in which the civilian,

and his excellent companion, were so busily engaged.

“I dare not ask him for so much money to-day,” said Dona Inez, in a

whisper; “but promise me to keep the jewels until Friday, and then come

here.”

The obsequious merchant gave the necessary pledge, and, followed by his

attendant, he made an “humble obeisance,” and quitted the mansion of Don

Manuel de Cordova.

Friday came. Again the visit was repeated: other brilliants had been

added, in the interim, to the rich display that Juan Sanchez had

previously exhibited; and the stranger’s flowers had been replaced

with others of rarer kinds, and more exquisite fragrance. No wonder,

therefore, that both collections were examined with an increased

interest; and, in the wife and daughter of the admiral, that each found

an ardent admirer. At the especial request of the former lady, the final

selection of jewellery was postponed until the following Monday. Camilla

was then to spend that her last day with the world; for the next day was

to witness her private reception into the convent of Saint Agatha, to

prepare herself for the formalities of an immediate profession.

Monday came, and the diamond-merchant presented himself punctually at

Don Manuel’s door. He was alone, and his friend the flower-dealer no

longer accompanied him. He knocked, but admission was refused; and

the porter informed him, that his lady declined that day receiving any

visitors. There was a strange confusion visible through the whole of

the admiral’s establishment; and servants hurried to and fro, with

an anxiety apparent in their looks, like that of men to whom some

surprising occurrence had been recently made known. In a few hours,

the cause of this commotion was whispered over the city, and created

universal astonishment. The admiral’s fair daughter, Camilla, who in

a few days was to have become the betrothed of Heaven, had, on the

preceding night, eloped from her father’s mansion, and not a trace

of the beautiful fugitive eould be discovered. The day passed, and no

tidings were heard of the lost one: and the most extensive inquiries

produced but little information. It was ascertained that a fishing-canoe

had observed a felucca cross the bar, and, at an unusual time of tide,

stand out to sea--and a stranger, whose brilliant appearance occasioned

a sensation in the city, had suddenly departed from the hotel where

he lodged, accompanied by his black domestic. Months succeeded

days--Camilla was never heard of; and many and marvellous were the

surmises as to the means and manner, by which the lovely daughter of Don

Manuel de Cordova had been so mysteriously spirited away.

Three years slipped away. Don Manuel de Cordova was gathered to his

fathers; and after the briefest period of mourning, which a decent

respect to the memory of one who had bequeathed her his whole fortune,

would allow, the young relict had bestowed her widowed hand on a wild

and dissipated grandee. Of the lost Camilla no tidings were ever heard,

and her strange disappearance remained as much a mystery as it was on

the morning after it occurred.

Another event had caused immense joy along the coast. A celebrated

rover, which for years had infested the neighbouring seas, had been

driven on shore and destroyed by an English cruiser. Indeed it was full

time that the Flambeau’s predatory career should be terminated. While

she had continued under the command of a person who called himself

Ramirez, her spoliations were restricted to what is considered allowable

to vessels occupied in free trading, and no acts of violence had ever

been permitted. But for some unknown cause that captain had mysteriously

disappeared, and under his successor, the rover became a regular

pirate; and, from the extent of her depredations, her destruction became

indispensable. In effecting this, most of her lawless crew had fallen,

and the remainder were driven into the woods, where, as it was hoped and

expected, they would be speedily arrested and brought to that justice

which so long they had managed to evade.

In one of those sweet glades which are found occasionally in the

pathless forests of the south, aud show, amid the interminable extent of

dank weeds and underwood by which they are environed, like an oasis in

the desert, the summer residence of a wealthy planter had been erected.

The front verandah of the building opened on a piece of open land, which

stretched its green and velvet-looking surface gently downwards, until

it rested on the bank of one of those deep inlets which debouch into the

mighty rivers that intersect the southern portion of America; while

the rear of this romantic retreat was overhung by woods composed of

the noblest trees the earth produces, and in every variety of tint and

foliage. The house itself was of slight construction, and designed only

for temporary habitation; for, like other proprietors of opulence, the

owner possessed a splendid mansion in a seaport some fifty leagues lower

down the river; a place better suited, both from comfort and society, to

form a permanent residence; and his visits to this distant estate were

merely for the purpose of superintending a numerous gang of negroes

engaged in felling hard woods, and in enjoying the amusements of hunting

and shooting, which boundless forests and prairies abundantly afforded.

All in and about this rustic abode evidenced both wealth and taste,

and presented every elegance and luxury that was adapted to a tropic

climate.

It was a warm and lovely night; the musquito curtains were closed, and

in a very elegant saloon the owner of this sporting-lodge and his family

might hwe been discovered.

A sweeter scene of domestic repose could never hwe been selected by a

painter than the group within exhibited. A man, stout, handsome, and

in the flower of life, had his dark eyes fixed, with pride mingled with

affection, upon a female younger than himself by at least a dozen years.

Nothing could be lovelier than the beautiful countenance he looked upon,

as hanging over a sleeping child that rested in her lap, a mother’s

looks of love were bent upon her slumbering treasure. Behind the lady’s

chair, a tall finely-proportioned negro was standing with a silver

salver, on which were fruits and wine; while a beautiful Chilleno girl

waited at her mistress’ side, to receive her sleeping charge. Presently

the infant was committed to its nurse’s arms. The negro placed his

refreshments on the table, and, with the fair Chilleno, immediately

quitted the apartment, leaving the planter and his lovely wife to the

society of each other.

The lady rose and looked out from the lattice on the lawn, and as she

crossed the chamber the grace of her figure was displayed. It boasted

no longer the airy elegance of girlish symmetry: the flower was in its

bloom--the form exhibited womanly maturity; and it was apparent that

her’s was that endearing situation, which doubly claims a husband’s

tenderest care.

Evening had changed to midnight; not a breath of wind rustled the lewes,

or rippled the glassy surface of the river. All were asleep but the

guilty; and yet, at that lone hour, a group of men were circled round

a fire beside a sandy cove, on which a boat was drawn ashore. They were

all armed; and while some were preparing supper, others kept a vigilant

look out. They had the air and appearance of wild and desperate men; and

their conversation, maintained in that low tone which evinces suspicion,

confirmed their lawless character.

“What an infernal accident,” said one of the rovers, “to run her smack

upon a sunken rock, and lose the vessel after boasting that he knew

every creek and cove from Chiloe to Cape Francisco.”

“He’ll never lose another,” observed a second scoundrel, coolly. “But

Gaspard is over ready with his pistol. Before the schooner’s copper

had scraped the coral a second time, Diego was dead as a mackarel. Poor

devil!--the skipper allowed no time for explanations.”

“Ay, and the captain was right,” observed a truculent ruffian, whose

features were scarcely visible from the matted covering of coal-black

hair, which hid them from chin to forehead. “I’m half sorry, too, that

we lost the blundering fool--he didn’t mean it after all. There’s

but a handful of the old Flambeaus left, and one now-a-days can’t trust

to strangers.”

“What a lucky craft that old Flambeau was,” said the first speaker: “her

equal for success, in Captain Ramirez’ time, was never known. And then

he kept all so nicely out of trouble; and though men grumbled at him now

and then, why, in the long-run, he proved a wise-one. He valued no flag

but one; and a yard of British bunting was a vessel’s full security. If

we met an English trader short of water, why he supplied it freely; were

provisions wanted, he put us on short allowance, and divided to the last

biscuit with the starving crew. Well, the first ship--French, Dutch,

or Spaniard, Portuguese or Dane--we met with afterwards, he made up

the loss--ay, and helped himself to a double quantity, because he had

succoured the distressed. Well, the foreigner probably complained to

the first broad pennant, when he reached a harbour, when in dropped a

disabled ship to tell that in her distress she had got all she wanted

from the Flambeau. Had the gallant Ramirez remained, the finest schooner

that ever crossed the line would be as she used to be, breasting the

waters like a sea-gull. See what fell out: Gaspard couldn’t stand

temptation, but must fall foul of a rich Jamaica-man,--and in a month a

clipper sloop is dispatched to regularly run us down; and sticks to

us like a bloodhound, until, like our namesake, we were regularly

extinguished. Ah! poor Flambeau!”

“It’s all true. We never knew the old captain’s loss, till after we had

got a new one; and many’s the time Gaspard has heard that told him,

when he didn’t like it. But where has he wandered to? He’s full an hour

away.”

“He’s not lost, however; for see, he comes along the cove.” Of all that

lawless company, assembled round a midnight fire, the new comer looked

the greatest ruffian.

“How now,” he said, assuming an air and tone of command, “is supper

ready yet? There’s no great cooking required, Master Sambo,” said

he, addressing a mulatto who appeared to be the cook; “scanty fare at

present, lads--fish, fish, fish! No matter; better luck again. Come,

let’s have it as it is. Step to the boat, Soto, and bring us that runlet

of Hollands. Curses on that stupid scoundrel, who, with plenty of sea

room and smooth water, lost a vessel so foolishly!”

“He paid for his mistake upon the spot: you’re clear with him, captain,”

growled another ruffian.

“Ay, were he my brother, he should have fared no better. But, come, my

lads, eat, drink, and bless the saints afterwards, for giving you the

commander you have.”

“I wish,” said another rover, “we could rather persuade them to mend our

fare a little. Nothing but river fish--one worse than another, and the

best not fit for a nigger’s banyan day. I fancy we’ll fare still worse;

the vessel gone, and not a chance of getting another! What the devil

could have brought us here? Toiling at the oars for a hundred miles up

a river, where nothing could be met with but timber rafting down the

stream. Pish! a pretty way to lose a schooner. I say, what drove us

here?”

“Silence!” said the captain; “and I’ll tell you.”

“I wish you would,” returned the other, in a mutinous tone.

“Revenge!” was the stern reply; “revenge and plunder!”

“Revenge sounds well enough,” returned the former speaker, “and plunder

better still. But on whom have we any cause of vengeance, fifty leagues

from ocean? ‘Who are we to find here, among mango trees and cockatoos?

And as to plunder, there’s nothing to be picked up but drift wood; and

there’s a chance---a raft floating down the river, and only a brace of

niggers guarding it!” and the fellow laughed in derision.

“Peace,” roared the captain, sternly. “Pass the runlet; and at its third

round, I’ll tell you why we came.”

“Is Dutch courage required to-night, captain, that we must be drunk, or

half-seas over, before you tell us what brought us here?”

“By Heaven! Juan, you will drive me further than I wish,” and the

captain laid his hand upon a pistol.

“Hold! hold!” exclaimed half-a-dozen voices; “no more of that to-night.

No use in mincing matters; the schooner’s sunk, and what are we to

do?--keep here, and rob fishing canoes, as we did to-night, to furnish

out a rascally existence? or seek the bush at once, and band ourselves

with nigger runaways? Captain, it won’t do.”

“Hear me, men,” exclaimed the captain, passionately. “‘Tis true the

vessel’s gone: well, that’s no fault of mine; but for the plan--revenge

and plunder. Don’t they sound well together?”

“Ay; let’s hear it,” said a rover.

“You all remember Ramirez?”

“Ay, ay,” was generally responded.

“You thought him--”

An outbreak from the band prevented the captain from finishing the

sentence.

“Ramirez,” said the man whose face was ensconced in hair, “was the best

commander that I--and I’m twelve years in the free trade--ever sailed

under; ay, or ever will.”

“In action, cool as a cucumber,” rejoined a second.

“And,” added a third, “in real danger, fierce as a wild cat; and with

all his wits about him, too.”

“Night nor day, I never saw him disguised in liquor,” observed another,

who was so particularly drunk, that he could barely articulate. “You

might trust him with uncounted gold--”

“And to his ship’s company,” added a sixth, winding up the eulogium,

“he was true as needle to the north.”

“Well, comrades,” said the captain, moodily, “I’ll allow that Ramirez

was a good commander, an able seaman, stout leader, capital hand at a

pinch, slept always with his starboard eye open; but he was--” and he

paused.

“What?” cried a dozen voices.

“The falsest villain that ever betrayed a gallant crew!”

“No, no, no,” was repeated by a dozen voices.

“I’ll give you proof positive. He disappeared; but none of you could

tell, or even guess, the wealth he carried with him. None suspected him;

for all of you thought him a nonesuch. Well, what was he all along?

why, nothing more nor less than a hired spy. He gave the cruisers secret

information of all that passed in every port we entered as free traders;

and, in return, they never looked after him. Well, he got blown on the

coast at last; and, when he could no longer carry on the game, he left

the Flambeau to her fate. And how long after he had deserted ship and

comrades was it before the British bull-dogs were let loose upon the

sweetest schooner that ever swam the sea?”

“Ay, ay, captain,” observed a rover, “that’s all well enough; but

recollect, that in the time of Captain Ramirez, men never walked the

plank; nor did he, like a common ass, make free with English bunting,

and put his hand upon the lion’s mane. If a doubtful sail appeared in

the gulph, why an English merchantman would run under the Flambeau’s

stern for protection; and, there’s no use talking, Captain Ramirez

stood so high with every skipper in these seas, that, d----n me, were he

sentenced to be hanged, I think they’d hardly get men enough in a whole

ship’s company, to man the fall that sent him to the fore-yard. No,

no; he never intentionally left the schooner. Poor dear soul!--he was

murdered, and that’s my opinion.”

A dozen voices answered in a willing affirmative.

“Dolts and madmen!” shouted the captain; “he lives! ay, lives! Why stare

ye thus, like fools?--Ay, lives in luxury and splendour: the richest

planter in the province; the highest among the high; and all bought by

what?--falsehood, and deep, deep treachery!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the rovers.

“True, by the light of heaven!” returned the pirate chief. “He lives;

ay, and is sleeping at his ease--wealth around him, and beauty in his

arms--not half a league from the very spot I stand on.”

“Captain Ramirez alive, and wealthy, and within cannon-shot?”

“If Captain Ramirez be not, there’s one that will answer just as well,

although he has dropped a former title, and taken the plainer one of

Hartley.”

“Come, captain, no riddles, if you please; we’re plain seamen, and can

only understand a plain story. If Ramirez is alive, and as you have

described him, why, all you said against him must be true. Men neither

come back from the grwe, nor do they pick up doubloons in the woods,

like hiccory nuts. If your tale be true, Ramirez is a traitor and a

rogue; and, were there no other hand to do the job, I’d row a hundred

leagues for the mere pleasure of cutting the throat of scoundrel that

sold us all.”

“Juan, the right pluck is in thee still,” returned Gaspard, with a smile

of demoniac satisfaction. “What say ye all, lads?”

“Why, that he who wouldn’t do as honest Juan says, has no manhood in

him,” responded a rover.

“Come, pass the good liquor round, and then for booty and revenge!” From

hand to hand the runlet passed, until the contents were drained to the

very bottom. Maddened by ardent spirits, burning under the belief of

having been betrayed, and excited by the hope of plunder, the ferocious

band prepared for violence and bloodshed. Their arms were examined; the

simple plan of attack explained by the ruffian leader, who had already

reconnoitred the dwelling of his intended victim; the boat was carefully

drawn up, and hidden in the tall reeds which fringed the river’s bank;

water carried from the stream, and flung on the red embers of the fire;

and, in Indian files, one after another, the ruffians took a narrow

path cut through the tangled underwood, and followed their truculent

commander.

Did no eye, save that which looks alike on innocence and guilt, observe

them? Yes; the slwe, whose canoe they had despoiled, directed by the

fire, had traced the marauders, and, concealed in the thick brushwood,

overheard their plans of murder. While making their final preparations,

the negro glided through the coppice like a snake, and ran, at headlong

speed, to alarm his devoted master. He reached the dwelling safely; but

it was to alarm, and not to save!

The planter’s country-house was wrapped in night and silence; the lights

were extinguished, and the inmates buried in deep repose. From the lord

to the serf, all felt the influence of that peaceful hour; and in the

woods where he had toiled all day, the negro slept in his wigwam as

soundly as his master; for, as the Indian adage goes,

The lightest heart has ever the heaviest eye-lid.”

At that still hour, a dusky figure stole underneath the verandah of

the planter’s house, and sought a window in the rear. Twice, he tapped

gently on the lattice; the third time, the sound was sharper--and it

was heard and answered. To a person within, the negro communicated some

intelligence, and the next moment a door was cautiously unclosed, and

the late visitor admitted.

Whatever the tidings were, which this untimely messenger had brought,

they seemed to have created an unusual sensation. From window to window

lights flashed rapidly, and human figures flitted to and fro. But the

alarm as speedily subsided; the lights disappeared; and darkness,

denser apparently than before, returned; and the ominous silence that

succeeded, rendered the recent hurry the more remarkable.

The interval of this singular repose was brief--it was but a treacherous

calm. Armed men issued quietly from the cover of the woods, and,

halting at a little distance from the sleeping house, they held a rapid

consultation. Presently, dividing into two bodies, they approached the

planter’s dwelling. One moved stealthily to the front--the other as

cautiously stole round the rear. The marauders calculated upon effecting

a surprise, but the negro fisherman had warned the inmates of their

danger; and on the first attempt to force an entrance, a double

discharge from a lower-lattice stretched two of the assailants on the

ground; while, in the rear, the attack proved equally disastrous.

It might hwe been expected, that, astounded at a sanguinary and

unexpected repulse, the villains would have abandoned their design. But,

desperate men, they brought with them desperate means, and, at the order

of their leader, they flung lighted combustibles into the thatch which

covered the edifice; and retiring for shelter behind the nearest trees,

maintained a fusilade upon the house, and waited with demoniac patience

the rapid progress of fire--their terrible auxiliary.

In a few minutes the roof was in a blaze, and the upper story,

constructed entirely of wood-work, caught fire. Coolly the murderous

ruffians watched the flames as they enveloped the edifice from front to

rear; and assured of the result, they watched the crisis with fiendish

pleasure.

It came:--all--above, below--the building was sheeted in fire. Suddenly,

the negroes broke out from the blazing pile, and rushed towards the

woods for safety. Two male slaves were instantly shot down--the others

effected their escape.

“Now, lads, look sharp,” roared the demon leader of the gang; “the

traitor will bolt immediately. No mercy for Ramirez!”

The words were scarcely uttered before a white man, only half-dressed,

and bearing a female in his arms, sprang from the burning ruins,

followed closely by a tall powerful negro, with a bundle grasped by his

left arm, and a cutlas flaming in his right hand. The leader dashed past

the trees where the murderers had taken their stand, at headlong speed,

apparently as little embarrassed with the female form he carried, as if

his burden were an infant. The negro kept directly in his master’s rear.

A yell arose: half a dozen shots were discharged--but not a bullet found

its mark.

“By Heaven! the villain will escape us!” roared the pirate-captain,

rushing from his concealment in pursuit. Another of the gang had already

crossed his path, but the fugitive discharged a pistol, and shot the

assailant dead. The occurrence caused a moment’s delay. It was a fatal

one: for Gaspard overtook his intended victim, and struck fiercely at

him with a dagger. It missed the heart it aimed at, but found a sheath

in the bosom of her whom the fugitive supported; and before a surer blow

could be delivered, with one trenchant sweep the negro’s cutlass cleft

the villain to the chin. The wood was gained--the fugitive believing

that he held a living body in his arms! Alas! that precious burden was

only a breathless corpse!

That was the last effort of the murderers. A gang of wood-cutters,

alarmed by the blaze and firing, had hurried to their master’s domicile,

while the murderous crew, eight in number, retreated to the woods; and

for that time, darkness and a tangled copse concealed them.

They tell me that for an hour I gazed on the loved one in stupid

indifference. I can believe it well: the blow was stunning. Not a slave

ventured to approach me; for even their dull natures respected the

berewement this terrible calamity had brought on. Gradually Dominique

placed himself before me, holding my infant in his right arm; for the

left that clasped it when we broke from the burning pile, had been

wounded by a random bullet.

“What would you, Dominique?” I inquired, in tones of deep despondency.

“Vengeance!” exclaimed the negro, in a voice of thunder. “Leave to

woman’s hands the duties owing to the dead, and let us together hunt

down the murderers. Vengeance! vengeance!”

The voice of my faithful follower changed at once the current of my

thoughts. I raised myself, looked proudly round, and called for food

and wine. I ate bread--‘twas a form; I drank wine--that was reality.

I seized my rifle, dagger, pistols; Dominique armed the hardiest of my

slaves; and, before the sun rose, we set out to visit blood for blood.

I was absent for three days and nights. I started warmly on the

death-chase, and never was one more keenly followed up. I seemed

insensible to fatigue--heat, hunger, thirst were disregarded.

Of five-and-twenty vigorous axe-men, accustomed from infancy to

forest-life, by the second evening eighteen were worn out, and unable to

proceed; and yet I and Dominique--and he with a wounded arm--pursued the

traces of the murderers with unabated ardour. I ate not, slept not, but

drank brandy and shed blood. Seven of the eight had already perished;

but that eighth one lived; and without that ruffian’s life, my vengeance

was incomplete. On we went once more, and the human hunt continued.

We found the wretch, at last, stretched beneath a tree--worn down,

impassive, unresisting. I drew a pistol from my belt--looked at the

doomed one for a moment. Three had fallen, resisting, by my hand: as

many more by Dominique’s.

“No,” I said, as I replaced the weapon; “desire the slaves to

string that felon up; thou and I, my friend, cannot stoop to be his

executioners!”

I returned--witnessed the obsequies of my wife. That scene was too much

for one already excited by maddening influences; my senses wandered--and

memory deserts me.

Along, long gloomy epoch follows--ten years; long, long years! Mine was

a melancholy state of being; for they neither could call me mad, nor yet

pronounce me sane. My child was placed in a neighbouring convent:

she grew--was happy; and became, as the nuns averred, the favourite

_pensionnaire_ of a dozen. I saw her seldom; for when I did, the

striking likeness between her and her angel-mother for days unsettled

reason. Meanwhile, worldly events went prosperously; and, Heaven knows,

without the slightest wish to increase possessions already more than

enough to defray every desire and want, still wealth flowed in upon me;

and, in the list of rich Chilian proprietors, my name stood high.

There was one period of the year when my reason was invariably

disturbed; the anniversary of Camilla’s murder. The whole of the events

attendant on that frightful tragedy came back to memory; and the scene

was vivid to the imagination as if it were really being again enacted.

All was before my eyes--darkness and fire; slaughter; the death chase;

the funeral; and then insanity closed the fearful drama. The domestics

were always prepared for this awful season; and Dominique remained with

me like my shadow.

It chanced that a week before this sad anniversary, an English botanist

passed a country-house, where I was for the time residing, and, stopping

with me as a guest, he observed the gloom and depression of my manner.

Having delicately inquired the cause, and made himself master of all the

circumstances connected with the appalling visitation which I expected

in another week, he asked permission to remain. This was granted,--and,

directing his attention to the peculiar symptoms of my disease, he at

once pronounced it curable. This bold assertion startled my household,

who, for ten years, had witnessed the annual return of my insanity, and

always accompanied, as it was, with unabated violence. But he

seemed confident; and I felt a secret assurance that, through the

instrumentality of this man’s skill, Heaven’s mercy was about to

be extended to me, and that blest gift, reason, would be eventually

restored. I placed myself, and all upon my establishment, during the

approaching period of my mental aberration, under the absolute direction

of the stranger.

I was not deceived; and the result proved that I had calculated soundly

on the ability and experience of my unknown visitor. Dreading that it

might increase my excitement, the Chilleno doctors had inhibited the

visits of my child. The Englishman adopted a different course: Isidora

was sent for from the convent, and she ministered to a mind diseased

and the soft influence of filial love, like the melody of David’s harp,

effected a gentle cure, and soothed into tranquillity a spirit for so

many years perturbed.

By the stranger’s advice, I determined to quit the country, and return

to my native land. I disposed of my estates, transmitted my fortune

safely to England; and, with a dearer treasure far, my gentle Isidora,

sailed for the island-home of freedom, and landed on my native shores,

after having been a wanderer and alien for one-and-twenty years.

A long absence had rendered European manners strange; and, for a time,

I felt myself unequal to the novel task which a return to England had

imposed, that of mingling in society. For two years, Isidora and I

wandered through every portion of the British islands, for the Continent

was then closed against the traveller. Time, change of scene, and the

constant presence of my darling child, effected a mental cure, and

verified the assurances given me in South America by my able physician,

that my recovery would be permanent. I wished at least to have the

semblance of a home, although the very name recalled my past calamities;

and, in order that I might fall back, when wearied with the world, on a

retirement congenial to my fancy, I purchased that wild retreat in

which our first acquaintance was so singularly formed. Thither, I have

occasionally retired to enjoy solitude and my child’s society. Ours,

indeed, seemed stolen visits on the world,--and we both felt that calm

pleasure only to be estimated by those who hwe lived for each other

and alone, when, like wild birds to their nest, we sought and found the

peaceful seclusion which our mountain home afforded.

Your visit, Hector, rekindled feelings long suppressed, and spurred me

to exertions that, probably, under other circumstances, I should hwe

wanted nerve to undertake. Strange as it may appear, for several years

I watched your progress into manhood. The first impressions when we met

were favourable; and a more extended acquaintance has corroborated them.

For your sake, and for Isidora’s, I have sacrificed my own yearnings

after solitude, and come upon the stage of life anew. My existence is

unknown; my errand unsuspected. Should I succeed in my present objects,

a noble inheritance shall be restored to the rightful heir; and should I

fail, I have a consolation left, in feeling that I have fortune’s gifts

at my disposal, and amply sufficient, so far as wealth can confer peace

and independence, to ensure both to my children. You mark the term--Can

he to whom Isidora’s happiness is to be confided be aught but a son to

me?”

The record of an eventful life was ended; and I bound those documents

together, the perusal of which had occasioned an intense but painful

interest. It was long past midnight. At day-light it was necessary that

I should be stirring; and I retired to bed, to snatch a few hours of

repose.

I was still asleep when a gentle touch upon the shoulder dispelled my

uneasy slumbers, and the faithful follower of my uncle’s fortunes told

me it was time to dress, and that the camarados of my intended voyage

and campaigns were afoot, and waiting in the court-yard. Indeed, the

ratcatcher’s presence was intimated already--for in perfect indifference

as to what might be the complexion of our future fortune, Shemus Rhua

was croning an Irish ditty. I dressed by candlelight, descended to the

eating-room, and there found “mine honoured uncle.” Alas--Isidora was

not there to say farewell. She slept, poor girl, little dreaming that

we had already parted; and that many a month and stormy passage in a

soldier’s life must wear away, before I should be permitted to return

and claim her plighted hand.

“Hector,” said my uncle, with a sigh, as he received the papers he had

entrusted to me, and immediately committed them to the fire, “you

are now in full possession of every secret of my life. ‘Tis done--the

disclosure is made--and I have nothing either to communicate or conceal.

No more of this; the clock chimes,--and our hour of parting hurries on.

I am going to deprive you of a follower, provided you can dispense with

the services of Captain Macgreal, and that he is willing to transfer

his allegiance to me. Pray step down; and if the ratcatcher has no

particular objection, let me have his valuable assistance till you

return. ‘Strange fortunes produce strange bedfellows,’ a proverb says;

and singular positions require as singular agents. Odd as it may appear,

in the tangled web I shall have to unravel, I may be beholden for

success to that wild woman who seems devoted to your interests, or

this wandering personage, who appeal’s equally attached, and willing to

follow where you lead.”

A brief communication with Shemus Rhua effected my uncle’s wish; and the

ratcatcher placed his services at the disposal of Mr. Hartley. Sooth

to say, the captain’s previous experience of a martial life had left no

craving in his breast after “the bubble reputation.”

Nothing could be more picturesque than the departure of the fleet

from Portsmouth; and years afterwards, memory recalled the poet’s

description, and I could have imagined that Byron had been a

fellow-passenger. The morning was brilliant. The signal gun was

answered. All were immediately under way.

“I ween, a full fair sight;

When the fresh breeze was fair as breeze can be,

The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight,

Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,

The glorious main expanding o’er the bow,

The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,

The dullest sailor wearing bravely now;

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.”

Shall I confess the truth? Never did an Irish cadet start for a scene

of glory with less enthusiasm. In the retirement of my father’s house,

every newspaper that arrived had brought with it fresh details of

British victory,--and I longed, like another Norval, “to follow to the

field” any honest gentleman who would hwe taken the trouble to show me

the shortest way of getting a quietus--miscalled, the road to glory. A

few months had, however, wrought a marvellous alteration; and but for

the shame of the thing, I verily believe, I should hwe exchanged with

some Captain Bailey of the day, and, without requiring “the difference,”

forsworn the trade of arms, excepting the bloodless duty appertaining to

country quarters.

Now I was regularly committed. The dullest spirit would catch a noble

impulse. The fields of Roliça, Busaco, and Salamanca rose in glorious

recollection; another feeling succeeded the regret attendant on a first

separation from the object of a first love; and, before the second sun

went down, I should hwe scorned an ignoble return, until “with war’s

red honours on my crest,” I could hwe proudly claimed my affianced one.

Speedily the true mercurial temperament of the Green island returned. I

joined the reckless merriment of all around: we drank, and laughed, and

sang. Nothing could be more prosperous than the voyage.

“On, on the vessel flies; the land is gone,

And winds are rude in Biscay’s sleepless bay.

‘Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,

New shores descried make every bosom gay;

And Cintra’s mountain greets them on their way;

And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,

His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,

And steer ‘twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.”

On the sixth evening we disembarked at Belem; and with my foster

brother, Mark Antony O’Toole, I sprang from the frigate’s launch,

and, for the first time, set foot on that scene of British glory--the

Peninsula.

CHAPTER XXVII. I JOIN THE CANTONMENTS OF THE ALLIED ARMY--LIEUTENANT

CROTTY’S INTERVIEW WITH LORD WELLINGTON.

“Sir James. Surely you exaggerate a little?

Papillon. Yes--yes, this interview will sink him.

Young Wilding. True to the letter, upon my honour.”

“Why he will tell you more lies in an hour than all the circulating

libraries put together will publish in a year.”--The Liar.

|I had scarcely landed when I received the unwelcome intelligence

that General ----------, to whose staff I had been appointed, had been

wounded on the retreat from Burgos, and in consequence obliged to resign

his command, and return to England invalided. I felt the disappointment

severely--but as the corps that I had previously exchanged into was at

Valencia, with the Anglo-Sicilian army there collected, much as I

should have desired “to follow to the field” the victor of Salamanca,

I determined to join my regiment without delay, and “flesh my maiden

sword” the ensuing campaign, under the colours of the old and honourable

Twenty-seventh. Ignorant of the route by which I could cross the country

to the eastern coast of Spain, and anxious to see that gallant army

under whose conquering banners I had anticipated a glorious opening to

my career in arms, after a three days’ sojourn in Lisbon, I left that

city of filth and splendour in company with half a dozen officers

_en route_ to join their respective battalions--some, in return from

leave--and others, like myself, to smell powder for the first time.

A captain of an Irish regiment was of the party. He was a gay,

honest-hearted, blundering countryman; and from the graphic sketches

D’Arcy gwe me on the road of all attached to the battalion I was about

to join, from the junior Ensign of sixteen, to the old stiff-backed

Colonel of sixty, I became so familiar with the corps, that I almost

fancied at first sight I could have placed my hand on every head, and

identified the individual--and, on the evening when we entered the

encampment of the regiment, I felt perfectly at home, and entered the

rude mess-room as much at ease, as if, after a temporary absence, I was

merely returning to join some old acquaintances.

It was a memorable epoch in the military history of Britain, when, early

in the second week of February, 1813, I found myself in the cantonments

of the fourth division on the banks of the Agueda. Like all sublunary

affairs, war has its season of repose; and those mighty masses of armed

men, who but a few months before had stood in threatening array in

presence of each other, were separated by mutual consent to recover

their losses and fatigues, and prepare for renewed exertions. Each had

selected that portion of the country best adapted for obtaining supplies

and reinforcements. The allied infantry were cantoned generally on the

Agueda and Douro--with their cavalry in the valley of the Moudego,

and round Moncorbo. One Spanish corps passed the winter in Gallicia,

a second in Estremadura, and a third garrisoned Ciudad Rodrigo. Of the

French armies, the head quarters of the northern was at Valladolid; the

southern at Toledo; and those of the centre, including King Joseph and

his guards, were established at Segovia. In military circumstances, the

rival armies found themselves, at the end of the preceding autumn, in

a position similar to that of men who have fought a battle in which

neither have come off conqueror. Both had sustained enormous losses

without countervailing advantages; and each required its casualties

to be replaced, and its discipline restored. At the opening of the

campaign, fortune went as heavily against the enemy, as it did against

the allies at the close. From the 18th of July, when the French passed

the Douro, until they recrossed it on the 30th, their loss might have

been set down at fifteen thousand men, and the allies at about a third

of that number. While, from the time when Lord Wellington broke ground

before Burgos, until he halted on the banks of the Huebra, in retreat,

chiefly from drunkenness and military irregularity, eight thousand of

the allies were rendered _hors de combat_.

No wonder therefore that to both armies, winter presented a seasonable

period of repose, and that both willingly accepted it. Nearly one third

of his army were in hospital, and hence Lord Wellington deemed that rest

for it was indispensable. Nor could his opponents avail themselves of

this weakness, and continue active operations, for the French supplies

were insecure, and their bases of operation disturbed by Partida bands,

which were every where swarming on their flanks and in their rear.

Indeed each army dreaded that the other would resume hostilities; and

when a report prevailed that Soult, who was upon the Upper Tonnes,

meditated an invasion of Portugal by the valley of the Tagus, and

Wellington had, accordingly, removed the boat bridges at Almarez and

Arzobispo, the French, equally afraid that the allies might cross the

river, destroyed all means of passage at other points which the English

general had overlooked as unnecessary.

Such was the military position of the allies in the field--one that,

abroad, rendered the question of ulterior success an uncertainty;

while at home, the failure before Burgos renewed loud expressions

of discontent, which the brilliant opening of the late campaign had

partially subdued. England was divided into two great sections; one

party advocating the necessity of continuing the Spanish war, and

another decrying it as a ruinous experiment. What Salamanca had effected

in establishing the policy of maintaining the struggle on the Peninsula,

the retreat to the Agueda had undone; and the balance of public opinion

respecting the expediency of abandoning the contest in Spain was

restored. “The ministerial party had expected far too much, and

consequently their disappointment was proportionate: the opposition had

raised the wolf-cry until the country had ceased to dread it; and they

caught desperately at what proved a last pretext, to reiterate their

denunciations, and abuse him who conducted, and those who planned

the war. Ministers were denounced for continuing the contest, and for

starving it--Lord Wellington both for inactivity and for rashness--for

doing too little and too much” *--for wasting time at Madrid, and

for attempting a siege with means so inadequate, that nothing but an

enormous expenditure of blood could possibly obtain success.

* Maxwell’s Life of Wellington,

But to the clamour of party and the calumny of faction, he, since

happily surnamed “The Iron Duke,” turned an indifferent ear; and the

same proud feeling that on the heights of Guinaldo had sustained him,

when a less assured courage might have faltered, enabled him now to

regard the malice of political opponents with contempt; and, perfectly

undisturbed, to direct the energies of a master-mind to the completion

of those great means by which alone a great end could be accomplished.

Profiting by past experience, the internal economy of the army

underwent a sweeping reformation. Abuses were sought for, detected, and

removed--every hospital was cleared of men who feigned illness to evade

duty--and from every depot idlers were driven back to the columns

they had abandoned. Supplies came liberally from England, proving the

illimitable resources of the island-home of freedom; and the great

captain of the age was thus enabled to organize the most splendid force

that ever took the field--one, so perfect in every arm, as to warrant

its constructor, years afterwards, when the greater number of those

gallant spirits who had composed it were sleeping in the grave, to make

the proud and proven boast--that “with that army which had crossed

the Pyrenees, he could do any thing and go any where.” No wonder that

brilliant era of his life is still readied in cherished remembrance by

the old Peninsular; and as, deed after deed, he details the conquering

career of that matchless host, with which he crossed the Agueda to halt

only on the banks of the Garonne, he may raise his head with military

pride, and exclaim, “Pars fui!”

Of two hundred thousand men under the direct command of Lord Wellington,

the Anglo-Portuguese, amounting nearly to seventy-five thousand bayonets

and sabres, were the flower. From the first moment of the Peninsular

contest, the British infantry had established its superiority; and now

the cwalry and artillery were superb. Every thing required for field

service had been skilfully provided. A fine pontoon train accompanied

the army, and ambulances were provided for the accommodation of the sick

and wounded. Other means to increase his comforts were also afforded to

the soldier; and, for the first time, tents were supplied for shelter

in the field, while the cumbrous camp-kettle was replaced with others

of smaller size, and lighter material, as better adapted for all the

purposes of campaigning.

During the suspension of active operations on both sides, and while the

French and Allied armies were quiet in their respective cantonments,

that restless enemy, the Partida bands, were busily employed. Longa, in

the vicinity of Burgos, was actively engaged in harassing the marauding

parties of the enemy, interrupting their communications, and surprising

their detached posts; while Hina, in Arragon and Navarre, carried on a

desultory warfare with equal success. Another less celebrated but not

less active leader was “the Friar,” (El Frayle,) who, with a numerous

band admirably organized, kept Valencia in confusion. Indeed, the

Guerillas had now become as formidable in numbers as they had ever been

audacious in their mode of warfare. No longer confining their operations

to the cutting off of foraging parties and the interception of convoys,

they fell upon strong detachments, and almost invariably with success;

until at last no courier could pass the roads, nor even a battalion

of seven hundred men move from one garrison to another, without the

protection of an escort. Such was the military attitude of Spain when I

joined the fourth division.

In a dilapidated farm-house I found my future companions in arms seated

at a comfortable dinner, although a stranger looking mess room was never

occupied by gentlemen of the sword. It had been the grand apartment of

the dwelling of a farm proprietor; the house was generally in ruins,

but this wing had been judiciously selected for the _symposia_ of the

gallant Twentieth, inasmuch as the roof was nearly weather-fast. The

table was a collection of old doors placed upon temporary supporters;

and as every member of the body politic furnished his own conveniency of

sitting at “the board,” the especial method of accommodation depended

on the ability or fancy of the individual. Some, in superior luxury,

had deposited their persons on a camp-stool, while others were contented

with a block of wood, a basket, or a broken arm chest. The table

appointments were not unique, for every person found his own; and

nothing was held in common property save the viands and the wine.

But a lighter-hearted community than the gallant Twentieth could not

have been discovered. The hardships of the retreat to the Huebra were

still in vivid recollection; and now, anticipating similar privations,

but attended by more glorious results, the present was their only care;

and over the head of the master of the revels the apposite motto “_Carpe

diem!_” had been inscribed with a burnt cork. Heralded by my loving

countryman, I was introduced in terms of commendation that brought

the colour to my cheek. I received, consequently, a warm and soldierly

reception; and before I retired to a shake-down offered me for the night

in the tent of the junior major, I called every man by an abbreviated

name--or, at least, as many of the batch as a memory, slightly

obfuscated, could manage to remember.

“Upon my sowl!” observed a short and snub-nosed captain, with an accent

redolent of “the far west,” “that’s dacent wine; and the divil that

brings it should be encouraged.--Here’s your health, O’Halloran; and

in return you’ll call me Philbin, if you plase;--and now that the owld

colonel’s gone, may I live to see you senior captain of the regiment,

and then I know who’ll command it,--and that’s myself.”

To this delicate and disinterested compliment, I replied in suitable

terms.

“And what the devil keeps Peter Crotty?” inquired a second.

Ignorant of the occasion of his absence, I inquired the causes from my

quondam friend, and learned that the absent gentleman had gone up to

head-quarters with certain regimental returns; and that his reappearance

had been eagerly expected, to ascertain what reliance might be placed

in the rumoured intelligence that an earlier commencement of field

operations might be looked for than the season could be supposed to

warrant. Peter Crotty, however, did not appear; an hour passed--the said

Peter was cursed and envied according to the mood of the individual;

it being universally resolved, that he, Peter, had popped into some

hospitable cantonary, and got drunk for the honour of the service.

“Lord! what a congregation of lies Peter will have to get rid of in the

morning,” said the captain of grenadiers.

“I beg your pardon--he’ll deliver himself of the cargo in a shorter

time--for that’s his cough, for a hundred!” responded a light-bob.

The lieutenant’s ear was correct; for in a few moments the denounced

absentee modestly presented himself.

Had our meeting been in Kanischatka, I should have claimed Peter for

a countryman at first sight. He was a stout, well-timbered fellow, of

soldierly setting-up, and, as far as appearance went, perfectly content

with himself, and at peace with all the world. To say that he was drunk,

would not be true; to assert him sober, might have raised a controverted

question: but leave it to the most charitable, and they would freely

admit that Peter Crotty, in Connemara parlance, “had been looking at

somebody drinking.”

“Arrrah, astore!” observed Mr. Philbin; “may the divil be your

welcome! Here have we been waiting these six hours, expecting a little

news--while you, no doubt, have visited every wine-house between our

quarters and Frenada. By this book!” and Captain Philbin raised a horn

drinking-vessel devoutly to his lips, “I’ve a mind to report you in the

morning to Sir Lowry.”

“Never listen to him, Peter,” observed the grenadier; “you must be

thirsty after your long ride.--Put that down your neck first, give us

some fresh intelligence afterwards, and stick as close to the truth as

you can conveniently.” And he presented to the new-comer a nondescript

tin vessel, filled to the brim with wine.

Peter Crotty had really been thirsty; for he turned down the cup to the

very bottom.

“Arrah--what kept ye, Peter?” inquired the first speaker.

“What kept me?--Why, business, and Lord Wellington.”

“Nonsense!”--

“It’s true. Divil a one of me could get away, good nor bad?”

“Any thing wrong in the returns?” inquired the grenadier.

“Oh, sorra thing; for he gave us the height of applause.”

“Did the aide-de-camp tell you so?” asked a listener.

“What aide-de-camp?--Don’t I tell ye it was himself?” observed

Lieutenant Crotty.

“Himself? Arrah--the divil an eye ye laid upon him, unless ye happened

to see him lighting off his horse,” observed Captain Philbin.

Peter Crotty answered this remark by a look of silent contempt.

“He’s in for it,” whispered my next neighbour, softly. “I’ll back him

for a regular rigmarole of lies against any man in the Peninsula. But we

must humour him.----“Well, Peter, and was his lordship commonly civil?”

“A pleasanter-spoken man I never was in company with,” was the reply.

“And he did seem pleased with our morning-state?--The aide-decamp told

you that?”

“Not at all; it was his lordship. ‘Crotty,’ says he--”

“Oh!” whispered my friend the major, “that’s conclusive.--All’s right

when Peter uses the present personal.”

“Ay! ‘Crotty,’ says he,”--observed another, “But you have had a long

ride; so before you begin a longer story, take the cobwebs from your

throat.”

Again the tin cup was replenished--once more Peter Crotty refreshed

himself; and then to a very attentive auditory he commenced the detail

of a recent interview with the “great captain.”

“Well, you see, I only got the returns from the orderly room at

twelve; and as I had ten miles to ride, off the mule and myself jogged

immediately. Nothing particular occurred on the road, barrin’ I met

Soames and Hamilton, and--

“Oh, d--n Soames and Hamilton!” exclaimed two or three voices together.

“Well, we had a drop of wine, and on I pushed without delay,--except

half an hour with the Eighty-eighth; and we had a sort of a lunch of

an over-driven bullock, the rump-steak,--by-the-by, it was cut off the

fore-part of the shoulder, and as hard as the divil’s horn.--We had a

throw of rum-and-water afterwards--”

“For _one_, read _three_,” observed another of the audience.

“Well, I reached Frenada--rode up to the door--gave my mule to an

orderly--stept into the ante-room, and handed in the returns--”

“And, as the evening was wet, I suppose they allowed you to sit down,”

said Captain Philbin.

Lieutenant Crotty turned a wrathful look upon the speaker, and then

continued his narrative.

“The door was open, and every word that passed within I heard plainly.”

“‘Arrah! what’s that?’ said his lordship.

“‘The morning-strength of the Twentieth, my lord,’ replied the

aide-de-camp.

“‘Divil welcome the bearer!’ says the general. ‘Isn’t it cruel hard,

that a man can’t have a little pace and quiet, without this eternal

botheration? Tell the fellow to come to the door; and ask him who

he is.’ “Be gogstay! I made bold to answer, ‘It’s me, Lieutenant

Crotty--plase your lordship.’”

“‘Crotty!--Crotty!’ says he; ‘Is it Peter Crotty, of the Twentieth?’”

[Illustration: 0309]

“‘The same, my lord,’ says I.

“‘Arrah, then,’ replies the general, ‘I wouldn’t for a thirty-shillin

note ye had gone home, without my seeing ye. Peter, step in and be off’,

and shut the doer after ye,’ says he to the aide-de-camp; ‘I’m not at

home, if any one inquires this evening. And now, Grotty dear, draw a

camp-stool, and bring your heels to an anchor.--Ned, says he, for they

called one another by their names; ‘hand Mr. Crotty a glass. And now,

Peter, raise y’er elbow a trifle, and fill fair. Is there any news

astir:’

“‘Nothing,’ says I, ‘unless your lordship has it.’

“‘Had ye anything to ate on the road?’ says he. ‘We could get ye a

broiled bone in half a jiffy.’

‘Too much trouble,’ says I, ‘my lord; I took a bit with the

Eighty-eighth, as I was coming along.’

“‘Oh! bad luck to the same lads, Sir Thomas Picton,’ says he.

“‘They’re makin’ an ould man of me, the thieves! The divil

himself--Christ pardon us! wouldn’t keep them tolerably reg’lar.’

“He didn’t say ‘Christ pardon us!’ Peter.”

“He did,” returned the narrator. “Do you think that he stopped to pick

and choose his words in the company of friends?”

“Well, go on Peter.” *

“All this time, Sir Thomas, and General Paekenham, never said a

word; but, like a priest after confessions, they lathered away at the

drinking.” _ _

“‘Did you hear lately from y’er family:’ says his lordship to me.

“‘Arrah! the devil a scrape I had from Ireland these nine months,’ says

I.

“‘I see what y’er lookin’ at,’ says he, as he caught me throwin’ a

sheep’s eye over at a card-table in the corner--‘are you for a rubber,

Peter, to help us to put in the evening?’

“‘Feaks! my lord,’ says I, ‘I’d be afeard, as I’m rather out of

practice.’

“‘Make it five an’ ten,’ says he; ‘y’er the divil at that, no doubt, as

the boy said his mother was at the praying. Come, Ned,’ says he,

‘down with y’er dust, and we’ll cut for who’ll have Peter Grotty; and by

my soul, up comes a red knave. ‘By the powers of pewter, Peter, ye’er my

own!’ says my lord.

“‘Oh, then, y’er welcome to him, if he was better,’ says Sir Thomas. And

he seemed cross at losing me.

“Well--my Lord desired Ned Packenham to make us a tumbler each--and down

we sit;--myself as stiff as a new-made quartermaster, although, if God’s

truth was told, I hadn’t a skurrick in my pocket to mark the game with.

“‘Here’s luck!’ says his lordship, finishin’ his tumbler at a pull.

I forgot to mention, that Sir Thomas stuck to the sherry, and Ned

Packenham helped himself to a sketch of brandy in the bottom of a glass,

and took it nate, without water.

“Well, I cuts a black deuce, so the dale was mine; and up turns the ace

of hearts afterwards. His lordship winked his left eye when he saw it.

‘Be the powers,’ says his lordship, ‘your mother must have been in’

the yeomen, or she’d never have had such a son! Many a Sunday ye play’d

cards upon a tombstone instead of goin’ to mass; God forgive ye for the

same, Peter!”’

“Colonel Burn wants Lieutenant Crotty immediately,” said a mess waiter

from the door.

“Oh, holy Mary!--I forgot to report myself!--and, may be, I won’t catch

it from the ould lad?” exclaimed the partner of Lord Wellington, as he

sprang from the barrel he was seated on, and hounded after the messenger

in desperate alarm, while a roar of laughter accompanied his hurried

exit. A _dock an durris_, for we were all Scotch and Irish intermixed,

passed from hand to hand, for the departure of Lieutenant Crotty

appeared to be the signal for a general dispersion; and I accompanied

the hospitable friend who had offered me a sleeping corner in his tent.

Presently, the cantonments became quiet, and light after light

disappeared. Within musket range, five thousand men were sleeping, and

yet not a sound was heard but the measured step of “the relief” as it

went its rounds, or the loud challenge of the sentry, answered by a

whispered countersign. To me, this seemed the opening of a new epoch in

my life. I now felt myself a soldier. The camp was to be my future home;

and, stretched around me, lay the victors of many a field, with whom,

side by side, I was to view, for the first time, the flash of “red

artillery.” My couch was fern, my pillow a bullock trunk; and, wrapped

in my cloak, I sought the balmy visit of the drowsy god, but sought it

vainly. A feverish excitement had banished sleep, and I could not but

envy the profoundness of my companion’s repose, whose heavy breathing, a

minute after the brief petition of “God bless us!” had passed his lips,

told how sound were his slumbers. I dosed at last--dreamed of siege

and battle-field, while gentler thoughts floated at times among these

martial visions, and love and war were singularly blended. Day dawned,

a bugle sounded, the drums beat the _réveillée_, and instantly the camp,

hitherto so silent, was all life and bustle, like an alarmed bee-hive,

as the startled soldiery issued from tent and hovel. In a few minutes

each regiment formed on its respective parade; and the fourth division

was reported under arms, as a horseman, attended by an orderly dragoon,

galloped along the front of the cantonment. On reaching the flank of the

line, he reined up his horse and rode slowly past, directing an eagle

glance at every regiment that composed the division. The drums rolled,

arms were presented, and I had no difficulty in recognising in the

plainly-dressed stranger, one who had already divided the attention of

the world with the great Napoleon--the victor of Assaye--the hero of

Salamanca--Lord Wellington!

CHAPTER XXVIII. A SPANISH INN THE EMPECINADO--AND A SURPRISE.

“True courage grows in proportion to the increase of danger.”

“This arm shall make a corpse of him who hesitates when danger calls, or

retreats when it presses.”---The Robbers.

|Having brought two or three letters of introduction to some veteran

soldiers who served with my father in the Low Countries, the delivery of

each ensured me a hospitable welcome at their respective cantonments.

A month had nearly been consumed in rambling visits, when it was

officially intimated, that as the armies were preparing for active

operations, the presence of every officer would be expected at the

head-quarters of his regiment. With deep regret I made all arrangements

for a journey to Valençia; and having procured mules and a guide to

secure the transport of the persons and property of my fosterbrother and

myself, I set out at dawn of day, on the 7th of March, to pass through

Toledo and Cuenca, and reach the head-quarters of the Anglo-Sicilian

army, to which my regiment was attached.

The route lay between the French outposts on one side, and a hilly

country on the other, infested by Partida bands; and, sooth to say,

it would have been difficult to decide on which hand lay the greater

danger. From the French scouting-parties it would be desirable to

preserve a respectful distance; and for Guerilla civility, we should be

mainly indebted to the protection afforded by a British uniform.

As the head-quarters of the south were established at Toledo, the

enemy’s posts were extended over the country in front of that city, to

keep open the communications, and enable their foragers to bring in any

supplies they could obtain. Hence, these roads were rendered dangerous

by the constant visits of French pickets and marauders; and, by the

advice of our friend the muleteer, we leaned towards the mountains on

our right, after we had crossed the Ibor by an unguarded ford below the

Hospital del Obispo.

From the moment that we cleared the cantonments of the allies, our route

assumed a dangerous character that gave it an additional interest. It

ran through a debatable land, subject alike to flying visits from the

allied cavalry, French scouting parties, and guerillas; while, here

and there, a few disbanded men, of every country and calling, were

occasionally encountered, who stopped the wayfarer, be he Trojan or

Tyrian, with a lofty-minded impartiality worthy of the school and spirit

of Jack Sheppard, easing him of life and purse together, without any

impertinent inquiry of, “Under which king, Bezonian?” In plain English,

from robbers of high and low degree, the routes connecting Estremadura

with Valencia were rendered almost impassable; and it was nearly a

toss-up to the traveller, whether the person who called “Stand and

deliver,” was brigand, forager, or partida.

Though the roads were hewy and the rivers swollen, yet, as the weather

was remarkably fine, for a few days the fosterer and I roughed it pretty

comfortably. It was a new passage in the life of both--and full of

youthful vigour, and eager for adventure, we got on gallantly.

On the fifth evening we reached a little hamlet pleasantly situated on

the river Sedana. Here, the muleteer had several acquaintances, and

the owner of the posada was his cousin. Our journey that day had been

unusually long; and, therefore, the intelligence that a good supper

and snug shake-down awaited us on our arrival at Villa Mora, was

particularly gratifying. As we wound down the mountains, the sun set,

the vesper-bell was heard, and the village lights sparkled through the

haze of evening. We urged our mules forward to gain the halting-place,

as the sky, for the last hour, had presented certain appearances, which

the guide apprised us were always considered to be forerunners of a

tempest.

We passed through the village street and alighted at the door of the

posada, where we were hospitably received, and inducted to a large

and lofty apartment, which answered the double purpose of kitchen and

parlour. Fuel was added to the fire, and due preparations made for

further entertainment. As the guide had predicted, the night became wild

and wet; and, accounting ourselves to be most fortunate travellers in

gaining our shelter before the storm burst, we took a position on a

settle where we could enjoy the comfort of a blazing wood-fire; and,

what was equally agreeable to hungry wayfarers, personally inspect

culinary operations while supper was in progress.

An hour passed--the table was spread--and the muleteer, having stabled

his long-eared charge, entered the kitchen, and seated himself at the

foot of the board. The host deposited a huge leathern bottle in the

centre of the table, which, as he avouched, contained wine of exquisite

vintage, and the meal was about to commence, when a trampling of horses’

feet was heard without, and the landlord rose hastily, and, with every

appearance of alarm, peeped suspiciously from the casement.

“Three travellers,” he exclaimed, “by San Marco. The Virgin be praised;

I feared some of those French robbers had returned once more, and that

we should be plundered by them for the hundredth time.”

I rose and looked out, but it was too dark to discover who the late

visitors might be. One seemed superior to the others; for he flung

the bridle of his horse to a companion with an air of authority, and

quitting the court-yard, entered the kitchen of the posada.

He was evidently a gentleman of little ceremony; for he stalked direct

to the fire--threw his sombrero carelessly to the attendant--desired the

landlord to hang up his cloak to dry--unbuckled a belt, to which a long

toledo was suspended--deposited a carbine and brace of pistols on

a bench--and then took a seat at the head of the table, with as much

indifference as if he had been the host himself.

[Illustration: 0316]

When disencumbered of hat and cloak, the very singular air and figure

of the stranger fastened my attention. His face would have puzzled

Lavater--it was one that you could not look upon without a nameless

feeling of suspicion and alarm, and yet, take each alone, and the

features were positively handsome. Hair, eyes, moustache and beard, were

black as the raven’s wing; and the complexion, dark as a gypsy’s. The

face was well-proportioned--the teeth white and regular--I never looked

on an eye more lustrous, searching, and intelligent; and the forehead

was nobly expanded. But the _ensemble_ was the worst. It bespoke a stern

determination, close akin to ferocity; and betrayed a disposition, stern

of purpose--ardent in regard--immitigable in vengeance.

The stranger’s figure was athletic and commanding--sufficiently

substantial for any feat of strength, and yet not too cumbrous in its

proportions for light and active exercise. His under dress was plain.

He wore a close green jacket and pantaloons, with tawny boots and a buff

waist-belt, in which a weapon, like a highland dirk with a buck’s-horn

handle, was secured. Such was the exterior of our new companion.

While I examined the stranger with deep attention, a hurried look, on

his part, round the table, appeared to satisfy his curiosity touching

the company to whom he had introduced himself. His assumption of

superiority was at once apparent; and, with the easiest manner

imaginable, he usurped a regular dictatorship of the venta. Raising the

drinking-vessel that stood beside his platter, he signalled the landlord

to fill it from the goat-skin, and at one strong draught emptied it to

the bottom, and indulged, afterwards, in observations more remarkable

for candour than compliment, touching the cellars of the posada.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, “call ye that thin liquid, true

Carvallôs? Hast thou no conscience left thee, man?’Tis well enough

wherewithal to wash a supper down; but see, honest friend, that you find

us something better for the evening. Ha!--this podrida’s passable;

and these partridges seem tolerably roasted. On with more viands. Two

friends of mine will presently be here. They have good appetites; have

ridden twenty leagues, and fasted as many hours. Need I say more?”

Whoever the stranger was, his orders were not disregarded. The

maritornes of the venta renewed her culinary labours; and the host

voluntarily departed to see that the horses of the late guests had

been properly accommodated, and make researches in his wine-stores,

afterwards, to try whether a flask more congenial to the taste of the

dark stranger might not be procurable. The latter, towards myself and

foster-brother, evinced from the first, decided symptoms of civility;

and among us three there appeared to be a friendly rivalship as to which

of us should hold out longest at the podrida. Were the hostleries in the

Peninsula frequently obnoxious to such visitors as we proved, I verily

believe that half the innkeepers in Spain would have been insolvent in a

twelvemonth.

“Faith, gentlemen,” observed the stranger, “to judge by the performances

of each other, we seem all in excellent health. No sauce for supper

after all, like a twelve hours’ ride through the mountains. What, ho!

Sir landlord! Wine--I say; and none of that valuable vintage you keep

for muleteers and travelling friars, who pay their scores in aves and

credos. What news, gentlemen?” he said, addressing us, “What is the

English Lord about; and will he soon be on the move again?”

I assured him that on these points I was in blessed ignorance--told the

simple tale of my journey to Valencia, and its causes--and, in return,

asked his advice touching which route I should adopt, as the one most

likely to be free from the French.

“You could not have made that inquiry from a better person,” he replied.

“I know the mountain country indifferently well; and if you place

yourself under my guidance, I shall ensure your safety to Cuenca.

Thence, to Valencia, I shall be able to obtain a passport that the

partidas will respect. Ha! I see my companions have scented supper in

the stable. Sit down, Jose; thou and Velasquez have seen more than a

single cork-tree since you heard the matin-bell.”

Following the example of their chief, the strangers deposited their

mantles and sombreros on a bench. Both were well armed; and each placed

his weapons immediately contiguous to his seat, like men who dread and

guard against surprise.

I thought nothing could have exceeded our late attack upon mine host’s

partridges and podrida. Pshaw!--as trenchermen, we could not hold a

candle to the worthy twain, who now went to work as if they had

been steadfastly resolved to clear out the posada of every edible it

contained.

At last they, too, were forced to cry, “enough” and we all united in

a closer circle round the fire, while the wine-flask made a frequent

circuit of the company. Dark and repulsive as the stranger’s countenance

might be, as “sweetest nut has sourest rind,” he seemed at heart

an excellent camarado. Indeed, we were no longer strangers. I spoke

unreservedly--told him my objects and intentions--and, in return,

obtained counsel and information. It struck me as being remarkable how

very intimately the stranger seemed acquainted with the cantonments

occupied by the allies, and the facility with which he named the

strength and formation of every corps that occupied them. Touching the

positions of the French armies, he was equally well informed--and, with

the Spanish dispositions, perfectly familiar.

“Ho--ho!” he exclaimed, holding the empty flask between him and the

lamp; “the bottle’s dry. More wine, there! Come, gentlemen,” he said, “I

shall play host to-night. I felt it rather an uncertainty this morning,

whether I should have found the posada tenanted by friends or enemies;

but the doubt has been agreeably resolved.”

As he spoke, the landlord entered--placed a flask upon the table--and,

having extracted the cork, was preparing to retire, when the dark

stranger motioned him to sit down; an invitation, which it appeared to

me “mine host” would rather have declined than accepted.

“Fill thy horn,” said the master of the revels; “I would ask a few

questions. There are none present but those to whom a true Spaniard need

never be afraid to unbosom himself. In that jacket lie honour and good

faith.” He pointed to my uniform. “And for my friends, I will be their

security.”

I never, in my life, saw a host less flattered with a guest’s civility.

He took a seat--filled a cup--drank our good health--and appeared

excessively uncomfortable.

“Your name, my friend, is, I think, Gonsalvez--and I would ask some

questions touching some of your acquaintances in Villa Moro. Speak

out; and--” the stranger lowered his voice to a deep tone, that made me

shudder--“what is more to the purpose, speak _truth!_”

The landlord winced--while my dark-visaged friend, in a careless voice,

continued--

“You had occasional visits from the French cwalry during the winter.

There was a squadron of the 5th chasseurs à cheval here for a month.

Where did their commandant reside?”

“He quartered himself at the alcade’s,” returned the host.

“Did he ever visit the postmaster?” asked the stranger.

“Frequently,” was the reply.

“What age is Jose de Toro?”

“Sixty--or more.” returned the host.

“And what the age of his wife”

“Younger by forty years,” was the reply.

“Then Jose de Toro was a fool to marry as he did. Was Captain Hillaire

particularly intimate with the lady?”

“They said--but Lord! in a village they say many things that are not

true--they said that the poor postmaster was almost jealous. After a

little time the scandal wore away; and Jose de Toro and Captain Hillaire

were the best friends imaginable.”

“Base villain!” muttered the dark stranger, between his clenched teeth.

“Well, my friend, if the alcade and postmaster found the society of the

French so agreeable, how did the Cura feel?’

“He never could disguise his hatred; and for some days he was kept in

close arrest, until the pretty wife of Jose Toro pleaded to the handsome

captain for her old confessor, and obtained his liberty.”

“Humph!” said the stranger.--“What is the nearest post that is at

present occupied by the French cavalry?”

“The nearest!--praise to the Virgin!--I have heard from a traveller is

at Areanza--some half score leagues from Toro.”

“‘Tis well,” muttered the stranger.--“Get me a trusty messenger; and

mind that he be _trusty_--or--‘’ he looked the rest, the landlord

perfectly understanding it. Egad! I never saw anything more expressive;

it was a look that conveyed more than any language could express. One of

his companions rose, and looked from the casement.

“How soon,” he said, “the storm has abated! The moon has risen; and

a finer night to take a hurried march and surprise a sleeping outpost

could not be found.”

“I wish it were otherwise,” returned he who seemed the leader. “And yet

ten leagues from a French picket, methinks, is tolerable security.

Go, Velasquez,--and see that this packet be sent forward, safely and

swiftly. For his messenger’s fidelity I hold the landlord accountable.

Tell him that;--and whisper in his ear, that the guest he entertains

to-night is ----------” His voice dropped, but a smile of sinister

expression told the rest.

From a secret pocket the dark stranger drew out a splendid watch. “Past

midnight. Come, gentlemen, one round more, and then for bed: we must all

be astir by cock-crow.”

The bottle for the last time made its circuit. Velasquez returned after

despatching the packet, accompanied by the host bearing a lamp. He

conducted us to a long gallery, containing at least sleeping apartments

for a dozen; but the only occupants that night were the strangers, the

fosterer, and myself. Where the muleteer bestowed himself I knew not;

but subsequent events sufficiently explained the reason why we were not

favoured with his company.

No stronger proof of caution and insecurity could be required than the

care with which each individual arranged his clothes and arms. Every

weapon was placed in a position to be ready for the owner’s hand; while

the business of the toilet was dispensed with altogether, as we

all stretched ourselves on our woollen beds without undressing. The

Spaniards crossed themselves devoutly; the fosterer repeated a short

prayer; I cried “God bless us!” and in ten minutes all within the

spacious chamber slept profoundly.

Several hours must have elapsed, and still my slumbers continued

unbroken. Suddenly an uneasy dream disturbed me, and I started upright

on the mattress. The lamp was burning gloomily; and the sleepers round

the chamber were fast as watchmen. I listened--noises low and indistinct

without excited my attention. The sounds were such as men make when they

attempt to move unheard. I glided out of bed, and peeped cautiously

from the lattice. By Heaven!--the court-yard was filled with dismounted

dragoons, and one glance told me that they were enemies.

The elder Spaniard lay on the bed next to mine, and I laid my hand

softly on his arm. In a moment his dark eyes were turned suspiciously on

mine, as I stooped my head and whispered that we were betrayed. He heard

the intelligence without any apparent emotion, slipped quietly from his

couch, and looked for a moment on the court-yard. I heard him muttering

to himself, “Ten--fifteen--twenty--forty in all: the odds are great, and

we, too, cut off from the stables. Ha!--let me think--there’s but one

hope--the gate first--the river afterwards--ay, there lies the only

chance of our deliverance.”

Flitting from couch to couch, he awakened his sleeping companions.

They seemed to be men accustomed to similar visitations, for not an

exclamation escaped their lips, nor even by a word did they betray the

least alarm. A finger, pointed towards the casement told its silent

tale; and each, as he arose, peeped from the window on the moon-lit

court-yard, and immediately comprehended the extent of his danger. In

a minute every man was armed and ready for the coming struggle; and we

looked to the dark guerilla for orders, as soldiers to their leader.

“In a position like ours, safety consists in daring. No matter how great

the disparity in numbers, we must not wait to be attacked; but push,

at the sword’s point, for the gate--reach the river if possible--spring

boldly in, and trust to the Sedana for our freedom. One word more--if

you can--escape;--but if the hour is come, fall sword in hand, and let

the dying effort be vengeance on the oppressor.’Tis time for action.

Strike bravely, my friends: in every blow lies death or freedom. And

now for the attempt: in five minutes the Empecinado will be a lifeless

corpse, or free as the mountain eagle!”

“And are you that dreaded chief?” I inquired.

“I am indeed Juan Martin Diez: he whose dreaded by-name has carried

terror with it to the boldest enemy of Spain; who lived the scourge of

the oppressor, and will die, inflicting injury while his hand can hold

a sword, and venting his last breath in curses upon those who would have

enslaved him!”

We drew up silently behind the entrance of the posada; all the bolts

save one were quietly withdrawn, and that one the Empecinado held.

Presently a man approached, struck the door loudly, and in a haughty

tone demanded instant admission. Never was order more promptly obeyed.

The Spaniard removed the last fastening--the door was suddenly flung

open; a discharge from the carbine of the Empecinado laid the nearest

Frenchman dead upon the threshold where he stood; while bounding from

his concealment like a tiger on his hunters, the guerilla chief sprang

headlong among a group of the chasseurs, cutting down a trooper right

and left, and shouting in a voice of thunder, “_Guerra al Cuchillo!_”

A sudden onslaught from desperate men is always formidable; and the

enemy, never imagining that those whom they expected to surprise, would

resist, still less attack, a numerous and well appointed detachment,

were quite unprepared to oppose this unexpected irruption from the

posada. The guerillas fought with the recklessness of men who feel that

they must succeed or perish; while, as circumstances occasionally make

heroes, the fosterer and I, considering that in a close and furious

_mêlée_ there is no respect for persons, imitated the example of

our worthy confreres, and, as I was afterwards informed, made a very

promising _début_. The atfair was short and sanguinary. Before the

French could recover from the surprise, nearly a dozen were killed,

wounded, or beaten down; the gate was gained, and for escape, the

chances were decidedly in our favour.

But, as it unfortunately turned out, a part only of the French

detachment had entered the court-yard of the posada, while an equal

number remained mounted outside the gate. The sudden uproar from within

put the outliers on the _qui vive_, and consequently they were ready

to receive us. Surprised, but nothing daunted, the Empecinado and his

companions fought with desperate ferocity; and the French cry of “Down

with the brigands!” was fiercely answered by the Spanish slogan,

“War to the knife!”

The conflict now was hopeless; each of us was engaged with three or four

chasseurs, some mounted and some on foot. I had seen the commencement

of the fray, but, as is the frequent fortune of war, I was not fated to

witness its termination. A blow from the butt of a carbine stretched

me upon mother earth--and when my senses returned, I found myself a

prisoner, and in the same apartment of the Venta, where on the preceding

night I had supped in perfect comfort and security.

I looked round--the room was filled with soldiers--and the only faces I

could recall to memory, were the dark and sullen countenances of the two

companions of the Empecinado, who were seated on a bench immediately in

my front, closely hand-cuffed to each other. Both had received divers

sword-cuts on the head; and their coal-black hair, matted with blood,

added to a ferocious expression of the features, afforded a perfect

picture of a captive brigand. Upon the wounded partidas, looks of

deadly vengeance were directed by all who surrounded them. Many of the

chasseurs had been wounded; and in the recent affair, five of their

companions had fallen; and one, whom they all regarded, the second in

command, and a young officer of great promise, had been stabbed to the

heart by the Empecinado.

“Where am I? Where are my companions?” I muttered.

“Escaped!” returned one of the wounded guerillas, with swage exultation.

“Escaped, my friend; to take ample vengeance for thee and me upon these

murderers.”

“Silence!” dog exclaimed a chasseur, striking the captive a sharp blow

upon the shoulder with the flat of his sabre-blade.

I never witnessed such a look as the insulted, but impotent guerilla

directed at the Frenchman. Could rage, and hatred, and revenge, be

concentrated in a glance, that look expressed them all.

“Oh, that this hand were free,” he murmured; “and that it clutched

the knife that never failed it yet; and then, robber--.” He left the

sentence incomplete; but none required further words to convey its

purport.

A noise without, was heard. It was the measured step of marching men

and in a few minutes the _elite_ companies of the 16th Voltigeurs,

entered and piled arms in the court-yard. Whatever was the cause of

this military movement, its scale seemed far too extensive for the mere

purpose of arresting two or three individuals who had made themselves

obnoxious to the invaders; and this suspicion was confirmed, when it was

announced that Colonel La Coste, the chief of General Laval’s staff, had

arrived in person, to direct the _promenade militaire_, as the Frenchman

termed this midnight expedition.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE EXECUTION.

“_Charles_. Be not afraid of danger or of death; for over us presides a

destiny, which cannot be controlled. We all hasten to the fatal day:

die we must, whether upon a bed of down, the field of battle, or the

scaffold; one of these must be our lot.”--The Robbers.

|A few minutes elapsed, when a movement among the soldiers near the

door attracted my attention, and Colonel La Coste, attended by several

officers of inferior rank, entered the kitchen of the posada. The

commander was a soldier of the republican school; a hale, stout, man of

sixty: one who, like the best of the French officers, had risen by

merit from the ranks, without family, descent, wealth, or education. The

honest boast of La Coste was, that he had been the architect of his own

fortunes, and had raised himself to distinction. The colonel was highly

esteemed as a soldier; but, if the times when his career commenced are

remembered, it maybe readily supposed that La Coste was loose in his

moral principles, cold to human suffering, and indifferent, provided the

end were gained, as to the means that he employed in attaining it. The

sternest hearts have generally some softer point that unites them to

their fellow men, and the rude soldiers was no exception. That solitary

place in his affections was occupied by the orphan of his sister;

Henri le Ferre was the sole object of the love and ambition of the old

republican--and, dead to others, the young lieutenant of chasseurs was

dearer to that cold-hearted soldier than all the world beside. In the

career of life, the most unpitying do not escape mortal visitations,

which force the heart to feel. Henri had perished in the recent

affair--and the misery that he himself had probably inflicted upon

others, was about to fall on the head of one, whom sympathy for human

suffering had never turned from a purpose which he conceived that duty

pointed out.

When he entered the apartment, he appeared excited and out of temper,

muttering to himself as he approached the fire, and then, turning short

round, he drew himself up haughtily between the manacled guerillas and

myself.

“So,” he said, sarcastically, “Captain St. Pierre, methinks, to-night

you have had but indifferent success. Five soldiers lost, the great

brigand escaped, and these paltry scoundrels, fit only for hanging _in

terrorem_ at a market-place, the sole fruits of a bloody, and, as it

has turned out, a bootless expedition! How could this possibly occur?--a

squadron of chasseurs, checked, defeated, by some half dozen--call them

not soldiers--but banditti! Ay, Captain St. Pierre, _defeated!_ Has

not the only captive we aimed at escaped ye? Except as examples to the

peasantry, these fellows are not worth the snapping of a flint--or value

of a halter. Is not this failure--defeat?”

“Colonel La Coste,” returned the captain of chasseurs, “much of what

you say is true. We counted with too great confidence upon surprise, and

overlooked the danger that lies in desperation. It has, indeed, turned

out a sorry _promenade_--little gained, and much, unfortunately, lost!”

“Where did the brigands escape to?--where did they seek shelter?--why

were they not pursued?” continued Colonel La Coste, speaking with

breathless rapidity.

“The Empecinado, with one companion, have fairly got away,” replied

Captain St. Pierre; “the other three are in your presence.”

“The other three!” exclaimed Colonel La Coste,

contemptuously--“Bah!--what matters the capture of these small

scoundrels, when the greater bandits have escaped? have they indeed got

off? and how, in the devil’s name, did they effect it?”

“I would half believe, through the especial assistance of the black

gentleman. To steel and lead they seemed impervious, or they never could

have been proof against one hundred shots and sword-cuts. By Heaven!

their escape appears miraculous! They gained the river, plunged into

the swollen stream, and under a biting fire, while bullet after bullet

struck the water before and behind, they reached the opposite bank

unhurt, scrambled up the bank, and were instantly lost in the thick

cover of yonder cork-wood.”

“Were they not followed, hunted, pursued? Is Henri after them?” inquired

the colonel, with impatience; but the question was unanswered. “Speak,

St. Pierre!--where is my nephew?--close on the brigands’ footsteps?”

The captain shook his head.

“What mean ye?” exclaimed the old republican; “Is he hurt, or wounded?”

“Worse--”

“Worse!--what, dead?”

“Dead!” was the suppressed reply.

“How?--when?--where? I know the worst;--go on, St. Pierre.”

“Colonel La Coste, my heart bleeds to tell the story. Henri, your

adopted son, and our beloved companion, is, indeed, no more! The felon

leader, who has escaped us for the present, singled your nephew out and

stabbed him!”

“Great God!--Henri!--my son, my hope, my pride, fallen--and thus

to fall! Die in the court-yard of an obscure posada, and perish

ingloriously like a peasant in a drunken brawl--Henri! Henri!”

A long and melancholy pause succeeded.

“Where is my nephew?” exclaimed the old man, suddenly.

“Here,” returned Captain St. Pierre, and his voice faltered.

“Well, let me see thee, Henri, even though it be in death.”

When I had been removed into the posada, I was for some time insensible

to everything that passed, and, unknown to me, the body of the young

lieutenant had been carried in, deposited on a bench immediately beside

me, and covered with a military cloak. Some of the chasseurs who stood

between me and the dead officer, now moved aside, and others brought

lights, while the covering should be removed, and the veteran “look his

last” upon the only being whom he loved.

In _post mortem_ experience I was a novice. Of course, like every Irish

boy who made his _entrée_ on the world five and forty years ago, I had

seen a criminal hanged, and a gentleman shot occasionally. To do him

justice, old Doctor Dozey, “our very learned and approved good master,”

was an indulgent and considerate divine; and as the school was in

an assize town, where hanging-matches and affairs of honour came

off frequently, we were always, on such occasions, favoured with a

half-holiday, to enable us to have a sly peep at the proceedings.

Although I had often been “in at the death,” yet with the exception of

Mr. Sloman, I had never seen the defunct after this mortal coil had been

shuffled off; and hence the appearance of the countenance, where death

had been violent, was new to me. I turned my eyes to the bench where

the body of the Frenchman lay, and, for many a day afterwards, the dead

man’s face was painfully recollected.

I was told that the departed soldier had been considered particularly

handsome, but looking at his countenance after death, I never could have

imagined it. Its expression was that of one whose spirit had departed

in intense agony, and every feature was distorted. I saw his companions

shudder as they looked upon the corpse; and, after one hurried glance,

the old colonel turned his eyes away, and signed to a chasseur to

replace the cloak, which had been removed to permit him to view the body

of his fwourite nephew.

“_Now_ for another duty,” the old man muttered. “Place these prisoners

before me!” and, drawing himself stiffly up with his back to the fire,

he remained in gloomy meditation, while the guerillas and myself were

conducted from our benches, and drawn up in front of a judge from whom,

were the countenance an index of the heart, little mercy could be hoped

for.

“Who are ye?” he said, addressing himself to me; “you wear an English

uniform--stolen from the living, or stripped from the dead?--say which.”

“Neither,” I returned, boldly; “mine is the dress that my rank entitles

me to wear--I am a British officer.”

“And wherefore the companion of brigands? Why are you the confederate of

these murderers?”

“I am not their companion,” was the reply; “I knew not who or what they

were. By accident I met them here last night.”

“You knew them not, and yet you ate with them, drank with them, fought

with them.”

“I did.”

“You shot a French chasseur, and cut down a second, as I am informed.”

“It is true; these things I did in order to effect escape.”

“Then, did you not meet these bandits here by previous appointment? Are

you not a spy--ha?” exclaimed the colonel.

“No--this posada lay directly in my route, as I was bound for Valencia.

Chance brought these men and myself together, and I knew nothing of

their designs, their names, nor their occupations. On this head, my

guide, the muleteer, will satisfy you.”

At this period of the proceedings, Captain St. Pierre whispered

something in the colonel’s ear. It was a corroboration, on his part,

that the statement I made was true. The colonel nodded, and thus

continued:--

“My friend, St. Pierre, confirms your story. I have had the honour of

meeting your countrymen in the field, and they have taught me to respect

them. The English are stout and gallant soldiers; and at a soldier’s

hands are entitled to that honourable consideration which the brave

give and receive from each other. But these brigands with whom you have

unhappily associated,--these murdering, dastardly, Spaniards------”

“False, by the Virgin!” exclaimed the younger partida of the two: “No

dastards, robber!--Look out in yonder court-yard--you’ll see there a few

mementos of a Spaniard’s vengeance; and if you lift yon cloak again, you

will find, that though he departed somewhat hurriedly, the Empecinado

did not forget to leave behind a token that will bring him occasionally

to your remembrance.”

“The Empecinado!” exclaimed a dozen voices.

“Ay, Juan Diez!” was the answer.

“Hell and furies! Mount every man; cross the bridge, Captain St. Pierre;

surround the cork wood--they may still be lurking there. I’ll give you

twenty voltigeurs. Carry them _en croupe_. They will beat the coverts

that horsemen cannot enter. Bring back, dead or living, the enemy of

the emperor--the murderer of Henri Lefevre!” The guerillas laughed

scornfully. “The cork-wood!--Will Juan Diez stay there to listen to the

nightingales?” said the younger.

The order was instantly obeyed; the horses of the chasseurs resaddled,

and, with a dozen picked sharpshooters to scour such portions of the

wood as might be impenetrable to the cavalry, Captain St. Pierre rode

off to recover a reputation he considered tarnished by his recent

failure; and, dead or living, bring back to his commander that dreaded

chief, the Empecinado.

The preparations for this new expedition consumed nearly half an

hour; the Spaniards sullenly resumed their seats; I sunk into sombre

meditations; and in short, everybody, captives and captors, appeared

superlatively unhappy. It was a relief when the door opened, and Colonel

La Coste entered the kitchen of the posada, accompanied by a person who

bore the appearance of a civic magistrate. Once more the Spaniards were

placed before their judge; and the Alcade, for such the stranger proved,

assented silently to all the French commandant decreed.

“I know not, nor ask your names--you are rebels to the king, and false

to France and your country!”

“A lie! by the immortal Judge!” boldly returned the elder partida.

“True to Spain, ay, true to the last. Pshaw!--Abridge this mockery. We

are doomed--we know it. Speak the sentence, and let the spirit, as it

was ever, still be free!”

“You know all the circumstances of this case already,” observed Colonel

La Coste, addressing himself to the Alcade: “these men are traitors.

What penalty should be exacted for treason and rebellion?” The Spaniard

looked confusedly around, turned his eyes aside, and then, in an under

tone that scarcely reached the ear, he muttered, “Death!”

Low as the voice was in which the opinion was delivered, it fell upon

the ready ear of the younger of the partidas.

“Death!” he exclaimed, “and doomed to that dread penalty by a

countryman?--Countryman!--no, no,--the craven has no country. Live,

Julian Lopez, live for a brief time; but let me add the terms on which

that wretched existence of thine shall be continued. From the hand that

tenders a petition, dread the knife. Reject the food offered thee--it

will be drugged. Touch not the wine-cup--it will be poisoned. Well,

though thou escape these, a more infamous fate will be reserved for

thee: you will perish on a tree; none pitying, and all pouring

out execrations as you go along. Some galley-slwe will affix the

felon-halter; and when the carrion is committed to mother earth, every

true Spaniard as he passes the unholy spot that covers it, will

strike his boot upon the clay, and mutter ‘Curses on the ashes of the

traitor!’”

“Stop!” cried the commandant. “Advance these criminals;--you guess your

doom----”

“Guess?” asked the elder partida; “no, no--to guess would infer

uncertainty. We know it well. Thou and I, Jose, shall die as many better

patriots have died before us.”

“You are friends of that dark brigand, whom you call the Empecinado?”

observed the French commandant.

“It is indeed a proud distinction you confer, in calling us friends of

that bold enemy to French oppression.”

“You share his confidence?” continued the colonel.

“Undoubtedly,” returned the elder; “ay, and I believe as much as any

living men.”

“You knew his errand here, then?”

“Yes.”

“Name it!”

Both the partidas laughed contemptuously

“You trifle with me, villains! But, by Heaven! I will no longer trifle

with you. Cammaran,” he said to a voltigeur, “get your men under arms;

throw the gates of the court-yard open; admit the villagers, and prepare

for an instant execution. Let twelve files load; we’ll join you in five

minutes.”

The officer left the room, and the old soldier thus continued:--

“Time presses: are you prepared to die?” he said, addressing the

condemned.

A proud glance from the condemned conveyed the guerillas’ answer to the

commandant.

“Would you avert your fate?”

“Willingly!” replied the elder of the two.

“Wherefore? and by what means?” said Colonel La Coste.

“I’ll tell you briefly,” replied the elder: “I am no soldier; I was born

on the banks of the Sedana, and inherited a farm my ancestors had tilled

for centuries. We lived then in humble opulence. My father died; I

succeeded to his small possessions, married as suited my lowly rank,

and was as happy as love and contentment can make an humble man. Twice I

became a father: need I add that this fond tie bound me still closer to

the partner of my home and heart? Your armies overran the country; but

for a time the remoteness of our hamlet protected us. Where was the

dwelling, however isolated, that at one time or other escaped the

fearful visits of your marauders? A foraging party entered our hamlet.

They took what they would, and none resisted; they ate, and drank, and

plundered--none offered remonstrance or complaint. I was from home--and

I tell the tale as it was told me afterwards. Within that solitary

hamlet, there lived some of the fairest peasants in Toledo. The morning

rose upon them in happy innocence--when it set they were ruined and

dishonoured. Maid and matron alike were exposed to licentious brutality.

My poor Inez told me the story of her wrongs, and made me swear eternal

vengeanee on the villain who had robbed her of her honour. He was the

leader of the party, and that enabled me to trace him. Where he went, I

followed--ay--followed close as a bloodhound on the trail. Night and

day I dogged his steps. When he removed, no matter how distant were his

quarters, there did I, his evil genius, appear. Nine months passed,

and still I never could strike a certain blow--but he who waits for

vengeanee seldom waits in vain. The moment came at last, and in the

publie square of Salamanca I stabbed him to the heart. Vengeance was

satisfied: and did I then return to my home? _I_ had no home--it was

a ruin. My farm was wasted; my cattle taken away; I found my wife a

maniac--for insult and cruelty had deprived her of reason. I sought my

children--they were beggars, living on the bounty of the charitable.

What could I do but swear vengeance anew, and band with those gallant

spirits who were in arms against the oppressors of their country. Well,

you ask me, would I live? I answer, _yes_--not that life to me is worth

the holding; but for the sake of that poor maniac and her starving

orphans--still would I live.”

While he told his simple story the recollection of his wrongs supported

him; but the allusion to the sad calamities which French barbarity had

entailed upon his wretched family evidently affected him; and I observed

that the dark eye which lately flashed defiance was moistened with a

tear.

“Spaniard, what wouldst thou give for life?” demanded Colonel La Coste.

“Aught that became an honest man,” was the reply.

“I will name the terms, and then say wilt thou accept them and be free?”

“Speak!” said the guerilla.

“Thou knowest the Empeeinado--thou art in his confidence--his haunts are

known to thee;--couldst thou, if at liberty, find him out?”

“Were my foot free upon yonder mountain, I eould within six hours hold

Juan Diez by the hand,” returned the condemned.

“Enough. A thousand Napoleons are on his head. Wilt thou place the enemy

of France within my power?”

“Never!”

“Think--thy life hangs upon the answer: wilt thou win gold and freedom?”

repeated the Frenchman.

“Never!--the word is spoken.”

In a moment the younger Spaniard threw the arm that had remained

unshackled around his comrade’s neck.

“Velasquez,” he said, “I doubted thee, and feared that thy courage might

fail. Thou hast much to bind thee to life; but is a life of infamy like

that false traitor’s,”--and he pointed to the Alcade,--“is such worth

holding?--No. But as thou hast addressed this our executioner, so too

will I.”

Colonel La Coste knitted his brows together, and the young guerilla thus

continued:--

“I am indebted to you; I have escaped the insult offered to my

companion, for you did not propose life to me at the expense of faith

and honour. Velasquez has told you a sad history--now hear mine. I am a

soldier’s orphan--I have no kindred left; for when my only uncle, the

good old canon of Seville died, I saw my last relative on earth

committed to the grave. I was then a student, and, but for

circumstances, would have been, most probably, a monk. You came, and

war, and violence, and insult, followed in your footsteps. Day after day

I heard the hateful tale of French oppression, until my blood became

gall, and I burned to take vengeance on the invaders. The slow and

cautious movements of regular warfare were unsuited to a spirit active

and ardent as mine; I sought a daring leader, and found him in Juan

Diez. For three years I have followed the Empecinado. Would you know

more of me?--ask who I am? Mine is a title seeond only to my leader’s--I

am ‘The Student,’ Jose Martinez!”

He ceased, as he announced his name. La Coste, the moment that the words

w’ere uttered, signed to a chasseur, whispered some secret order, and

then, turning to the guerillas, he coldly pronounced their doom.

“The time is short,” he added; “have either of you aught to ask for?”

“I would wish,” replied the elder Spaniard, “to spend a few minutes with

a priest.”

“The Curé shall be sent for,” replied the French commandant; “and thou,

young man--hast thou no request to make?”

“None from _thee!_” returned the Student, boldly. “Here! Landlord, fetch

me a cup of wine!”

The order was obeyed: and holding the untasted horn in his hand, he thus

continued:

“‘Tis the last wine that I shall drink! Tell the Empecinado, also,

what was the last pledge that passed the lips of José Martinez!---‘Viva

Espana!--Mueran los Franceses!’” * And he emptied the cup to the bottom.

* Live Spain!--Death to the French!

The Cura obeyed the summons of the French commandant, the manacles were

removed from the wrists of the captives, and the priest retired to a

corner of the kitchen, apart from all besides, to shrive the condemned

offender. Scarcely ten minutes passed, before Velasquez rose from his

knees, and, with a face that bespoke a perfect resignation to his fate,

stepped back to the place where his fellow-sufferer, the Student,

was standing, still holding the empty wine-cup in his hand. The Cura

motioned Martinez to retire--he obeyed; the shrift was short, and, in

five minutes, the Student rejoined his companion in misfortune.

“Are the prisoners ready?” said Colonel La Coste to the priest.

Both the partidas returned a steady--“Yes.”

The Frenchman waved his arm, and, with a voltigeur on either side, the

condemned guerillas left the kitchen of the posada for the court-yard.

I followed in the crowd--in fact, I was not regarded as a prisoner. I

mingled with the chasseurs, and, in the interest which the coming event

occasioned, I seemed to be forgotten altogether. We entered the fatal

enclosure--and although the villagers had been summoned to witness the

execution, not a dozen of the peasantry were to be seen; and, on their

affrighted countenances, horror and indignation were apparent.

In the centre of the court-yard, twenty voltigeurs were drawn up in

double files, with ordered arms, and commanded by a lieutenant. A dead

wall was directly opposite, at the distance of twelve paces; and thither

the Spaniards were conducted by their escort.

Colonel La Coste took his stand on the right of the firing party, some

half dozen paces from the subordinate officer that commanded it; and, on

either side, the chasseurs and peasantry formed a line of lookers-on.

The Colonel advanced two steps, as the Cura kissed and blessed the

sufferers for the last time.

“Wilt thou be free?--you know the terms,” he said, addressing the elder

of the partidas.

“No!” was calmly answered.

“Enough!--your blood be on your own head, and not on mine.”

Turning to the second he thus continued:--

“Young man, pause--death is bitter! thou hast many a day of life and

happiness before thee, if thou wilt but choose wisely.”

“I have chosen!” was the calm reply. “And now permit me an indulgence--a

few last words. I see the faces of deadly enemies around me, and, on the

blenched countenances of some dastard Spaniards, who stoop and kiss the

foot that presses on their necks, I look in vain for sympathy; but the

very walls around me will find a tongue, and the last message of ‘The

Student’ will be correctly carried to his friend, the Empecinado. Tell

him I died a true and faithful Spaniard. Tell him, that my friend and

I were slaughtered in cold blood, and that we expect at his hands ample

and immediate vengeance! Proceed!--art thou ready, Velasquez?”

A silent inclination of the head was returned by his fellow-sufferer, to

the Student. Colonel La Coste signalled to the officer, and the firing

party shouldered arms. A dead silence prevailed, and, at the movement of

the muskets, my heart beat wildly as a startled girl. Many of the French

soldiery turned pale, and but a very few looked on the scene of

death with indifference. The emotions of the peasants were now beyond

concealment, and tears and prayers were freely given to the sufferers.

“Are you ready?” inquired the commandant.

The elder Spaniard bowed, while the Student boldly exclaimed, “Ready!”

Colonel La Coste nodded to the lieutenant; at a motion of his sword, the

firing party came to the present, and the next moment the fatal word

was given--a volley answered it--and Velasquez and his companion dropped

dead on the pavement of the court-yard. Hastily, a cloth was thrown

over the bleeding bodies, the court-yard was cleared, the soldiers were

ordered to rest and refresh themselves, and I returned to the kitchen

of the posada, at the same time a guest and prisoner; and, in the same

apartment, and within twelve hours,--I supped with the departed, and

breakfasted with their executioners--Such is the fortune of war!

CHAPTER XXX. THE RESCUE.

“_A kinsman is part of a man’s body, of his

heart, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart._” Waverley.

|Those who have been familiarized with warfare, know well, from personal

experience, how callous it renders the heart to human suffering. To me

these scenes were new--and to witness my fellow-men coolly hurried

to eternity, without even the mockery of a trial, had occasioned a

sensation too painful and powerful to be overcome. When, therefore,

Colonel La Coste and his officers sate down to breakfast, I felt mine,

indeed, to be a sorry appetite. The dead guerillas in the courtyard were

still before my eyes, and men with whom, in the full pride of youth

and health, I had taken my evening meal last night, were now “stark and

stiff;” and my morning repast was to be shared with their executioners.

I could not forget them; they rose to my imagination like Banquo’s

ghost, and completely marred my appetite.

Colonel La Coste, who in his own rough way had played the part of a

kindly host, guessed the cause of my depression, and endeavoured to

remove it. He had been three years a prisoner in England, and spoke our

language tolerably.

“Come, my young friend,” he said, “courage!--‘Tis but the chance of war,

and thy thraldom may be short. Think not that Frenchmen do not respect

those to whom they are opposed; and while a stern necessity renders

example indispensable, they know how to distinguish between the brigand

and the soldier. Eat, and muster thy philosophy. When but a little

older than thyself, I underwent a protracted captivity--Did I sink into

despair? No, faith! A sous-lieutenant, without friends or money, I taxed

my wits to make a stand against misfortune--ay, and I succeeded, too.

There is in England many a tooth-pick case, the handywork of Colonel La

Coste, to which tooth-picks and their cases, the said colonel has been

often indebted for a dinner. Think not, that because I inflict just

punishment upon brigands, I cannot pay due respect to a fellow-soldier

in misfortune. Give me your parole--and, while with us, you shall be a

captive but in name.”

“I thank you, sir,” I answered, “but when a hope of deliverance remains,

I never will, by a solemn promise, rivet the chain that binds me. I know

all chances of escape are desperate, and, without even having seen an

army in the field, that I shall be transferred to the hopeless bondage

of some inland fortress. I will give no parole, and if fortune favour

me, I will be free, or----”

“So--I understand you! Well, try your chances, and let me take care

to mar them. Your parole once given, Mr. O’Halloran, no officer of this

detachment should have been more at liberty than yourself; but as it is

refused, you will excuse me in treating you as I should the commonest

prisoner.--No matter, we understand each other perfectly. You have

been candid, and I forewarned. Have I your parole while we continue

here--here, in this posada?”

“Certainly.”

“And you will not attempt escape?”

“No; even though my good friend, the Empecinado, beat up your quarters,

my dear colonel.”

“Well, to breakfast now. Durimel?” he said, turning to his aide-de-camp,

“this gentleman is under no restraint; and while we remain in the

village, the gates are open to him.”

I bowed. “I am now upon parole, colonel--I feel flattered with this mark

of confidence; and lest I might be run away with by these wild partidas,

I shall wail myself of the protection of your voltigeurs, and confine

myself within the enclosure of the posada.”

Colonel La Coste appeared pleased at the frankness with which I

addressed him, and nothing could surpass the civility of his officers.

Perfectly acquainted with the accidental circumstances which introduced

me to the Empecinado and involved me in the _melee_ of the morning, I

was complimented on my first essay; and more than one of the gallant

Frenchmen, expressed a sincere regret that my effort at escape had not

proved more successful. The colonel washed down his breakfast with a

hearty stoup, while, with the loquacity of an old soldier, he favoured

us with military reminiscences.

“Would you believe it, Mr. O’Halloran, that your name is perfectly

familiar to me? 1 am a soldier of the old school, and commenced my

career at thirty. My first campaign was in the Low Countries, opposed to

your present commander-in-chief, the Duke of York; and, at his retreat,

I was in the advanced guard of the Republican army. On both sides,

supplies were scanty, and as our discipline was not then particularly

strict, men wandered here and there to make out a supper, if they could.

Though in years a man, I was a raw soldier in experience; and one foggy

evening I straggled from the outposts, and, at last, totally missed my

way. The accursed dykes of that most beastly country confused me, and

the further I went, the more I got confounded. I tumbled into two or

three of their dirty canals, and escaped, half smothered, between mud

and water, until, after an hour’s wandering, I at last found myself

within the British outposts and regularly at my wit’s end.

“A light was burning from a casement; I crept on, evaded the sentry in

front, and peeped through the window. Within, one man was seated, and

the epaulets on his shoulder told me that he was a field officer. My

case was hopeless. In a Dutch fog, within the lines of the enemy, the

bridges guarded, the boors unfriendly--how, in the devil’s name, had I a

chance of escape!--and, adopting a desperate resolution, I determined to

trust to the generosity of an enemy. I tapped lightly on the casement,

and the English officer rose, and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘A

poor hungry devil that has lost his way!’ said I. He told me to proceed;

and I honestly informed him that I had been four-and-twenty hours

without food, and that, in seeking some. I had got out of my own lines,

and into sundry canals--was half drowned, half frozen, and half

starved--and, to sum the story up, regularly perplexed, and bedeviled.

He laughed--told me to come in--gave me a draught of genuine

Schiedam--pointed to a table, where the remnant of a capital supper was

unremoved--and told me to eat heartily; [‘gad, he had no occasion to

repeat the invitation;) I did so--again drank heartily from the

long-necked bottle, and then modestly inquired whether I was a prisoner,

or not?

“‘Heaven forbid, _pauvre diable!_’ he answered with a laugh--‘No,

no--Wert thou a spy--three dips in a Dutch canal, with the mercury

below the freezing point, would be punishment enough. I have tonight

the outpost duty--I’ll pass you--and should you encounter some wandering

Englishman, repay the debt!’ He then left the room; I followed--he saw

me across a bridge where the outlying picket lay--and in an hour, I

found myself once more with my regiment. Is it not singular that his

name was similar to yours?--and that, three days afterwards, I met him

in the streets of Tyle, bayonet to bayonet? The headlong charge of the

British grenadiers overpowered us; but I heard, with unfeigned regret,

that my gallant friend and host had been severely wounded, and lost an

arm.

“Well, my son, when fortune turned against your countrymen, often

and fervently I prayed, that should more misfortunes overtake Colonel

O’Halloran, some good chance might place him in the hands of his

grateful enemy, Corporal La Coste.--have you ever heard of such a

person--a man of my own time of life, ay--old enough to be your father?”

“In the latter observation, my dear Colonel, you are perfectly correct,

as the gentleman in question stands precisely in that relation to me.

Well--it is strange enough, that you were indebted for a supper to the

parent, and repaid it with a breakfast to the son!”

In a moment the old republican folded me in his arms.

“Welcome,” he said, “son of a brave and generous enemy! May your career,

my child, be as gallant but more fortunate than your father’s; and may

you return to your native land with a well-won reputation, to cheer the

winter of the old man’s age--I once hoped the same from thee, Henri!”

He looked for a moment to the corner of the chamber where the dead

chasseur was laid--a tear trickled down his cheek--he brushed it hastily

away--then rose and crossed over to the casement, to conceal emotions of

a softer nature, which, in his stern estimate of a soldier’s character,

he considered unworthy of its dignity. In a few minutes he recovered

his composure, and was ready to receive the report of Captain St.

Pierre--who had just returned to the village, after an unsuccessful

effort to discover the retreat of the dreaded guerilla.

The captain of the chasseurs announced the failure of the expedition in

terms that showed how deeply its want of success had mortified him.

“We scoured the woods,” he said; “we searched every hovel for a league

around us; questioned every peasant that we met, and used threats and

promises in vain: and we are back, Colonel La Coste--the men worn out,

the horses wearied--and we could neither find a trace, nor glean the

slightest intelligence of the murdering brigand, who, for this time, has

unfortunately eluded detection.”

Rest was absolutely necessary before the cavalry could resume their

march; and, as a mountain-pass crowned the Toledo road at a league’s

distance from the village, and rendered the route particularly

dangerous, it was determined that the party should remain at the posada

for the night, and march at sun-rise. The dead chasseurs were honourably

committed to the grave--the soldiers ordered to refresh themselves--the

day passed over--night came--and, after every precaution had been

taken to secure the party against surprise, I found myself once more

in undisputed possession of the hard mattress on which I had rested

the preceding night. War, like misfortune, introduces people to strange

bed-fellows, and I never saw that adage so strikingly confirmed. Colonel

La Coste slept on the Empecinado’s bed. Where were the wild and Swarthy

partisans whom I had seen stretched on those couches now occupied by

gaily-dressed chasseurs? Cold and lifeless in the court-yard;--all

suffering at an end--life’s fever over!

At dawn of day the trumpet sounded; and as I had never undressed,

I quitted the crowded gallery to enjoy the morning air. I found the

court-yard in strange confusion, and the spot where the dead guerillas

lay, encircled by a number of the soldiery. I stepped forward; the men

made way for me; and one of them pointed out a paper affixed to the

Student’s breast. It was a placard, couched in Spanish, the words being,

“_Meuran los Franceses!_”

When the occurrence was reported to Colonel La Coste, nothing could

exceed his rage at the insult, excepting his astonishment at the

audacity of venturing on an attempt, that if discovered, involved the

certain death of him who tried this dangerous experiment. All connected

with the posada were subjected to a rigorous examination; but nothing

was elicited that could attach suspicion to any particular individual.

I knew not wherefore, but the occurrence raised some hopes of a speedy

deliverance; and I felt a strong conviction that our march on Toledo

would not be effected without interruption; and the event proved that my

conclusions were correct.

We marched at six o’clock; and what a scene of melancholy loneliness the

deserted posada must have presented after our departure! The crowd of

glittering soldiers gone--the only occupants, the affrighted inmates,

and the dead guerillas. We rode slowly through the hamlet; I, mounted on

a horse that two days before had carried an enemy’s chasseur. It might

have been fancy--I thought the faces of the villagers had a sinister

expression as they looked after the French soldiers, while in more than

one hurried glance, I saw sympathy evinced for me.

When we cleared the village, Colonel La Coste rode up, and signalled

that two chasseurs, who rode on either side of me with unslung carbines,

should fall back.

“Mr. O’Halloran,” he said, “your parole is ended--are you willing to

renew it? If so, ride in any part of the column you think fit, and

consider yourself at perfect freedom.”

“Colonel,” I replied, “to do so would be to abandon my last hope of

liberty. Treat me as a close prisoner; I will not give the pledge you

ask from me.”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“Is there any secret understanding with the enemy? have you received

any private information? What hope of escape can you have? The escort is

strong--our soldiers vigilant.”

“Still--hopeless as they may be, 1 will not throw chances away. I tell

you honestly, Colonel La Coste, that I will use every means of effecting

an escape--”

“Which I shall take precautions to render impracticable,” he added.

“I have a stern duty to perform; and even though it cost mine ancient

friend a son, La Coste shall not be wanting.”